


Harry Potter and the Conjoining of Paragons

by ACI100



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dimension Travel, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Tom Riddle, Female Voldemort (Harry Potter), Independent Harry Potter, Intelligent Harry Potter, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Male-Female Friendship, Mind Games, Mystery, Not a Fucking Pushover, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Powerful Harry Potter, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Smart Harry, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACI100/pseuds/ACI100
Summary: Time Travel AU: Harry Potter had always led a miserable life. That was before his best friend and godfather had their souls sucked out by demons right in front of him. As if things weren’t bad enough, he suddenly finds himself in the year 1942. Things only become more complicated when, among others, an enigmatic prodigy fixes her unwavering attention upon him. Harry/Fem Riddle
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	1. Ruptured Realities

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognizable characters, plots and settings are the exclusive property of J.K Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**
> 
> **Acknowledgements: Thank you to my editor Fezzik, as well as my betas Raven0900, Athena Hope, Luq707, and Yoshi89 for their work on this story.**
> 
> **Self-Promotion: I have a Discord server where you can chat and read all of my chapters early. If you would like to join, simply copy the link on my profile. You can do likewise to check out the ACI100 Twitter account — @ACI_100 — for live updates, as well as my official website.**
> 
> **This story is also being posted in audio form! Audiobook chapters are being posted on YouTube and Spotify at the exact same time these go up on site. So you can listen to this as an audiobook if you’d like. Huge shoutout to my narrator, CCCP, and my video editor, Ashabel, for their hard work on the project. The links can be found on my profile.**
> 
> **If you like what you read and wish to generously support me directly, I also have a Patreon page, where you can support me in exchange for exclusive Patron only benefits. Patrons at the $5 tier or higher get access to all of my chapters many weeks in advance of even Discord, who in turn get chapters long before FFN and AO3.**
> 
>   
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> 

__**June 10, 1994**  
The Astronomy Tower  
1:23 AM 

Hogwarts castle, set atop a towering cliff, stood tall and imposing. At this time on most nights, the hulking black shape would have blended in with its surroundings, with the insurmountable mass of black stone camouflaging conveniently with the equally dark abyss of the night around it. Tonight was different. Tonight was the night of the full moon. The silvery, luminescent light didn’t allow the castle to blend in at all. It cast the titanic building into sharp relief, beaming down upon it like an ethereal spotlight, making the castle look more like an ominous, impenetrable fortress than a boarding school for the finest witches and wizards of the United Kingdom.

Despite the beguiling image painted by the night, the castle really was just a boarding school — if one wished to truly quantify the existence of such a magical place. Of course, it was a boarding school that was more well-secured than any other building in the country, if not the world. A boarding school with magic practically vibrating in every nook and crevice of its ancient, stone walls. 

Yet still a boarding school. A boarding school that hosted a vast number of students between the ages of eleven and eighteen. At the present hour, it was expected that every last one of said students would be curled under their covers, willingly succumbing to the grasp of Morpheus and preparing for yet another day. 

That was mostly true, at the current moment in time.

One student served as a notable exception. A small, thin figure with jet-black hair, large, clunky glasses and deep, emerald eyes. If one was to look upon the figure from afar, standing atop the astronomy tower and looking over the grounds in what might have appeared to be disinterest, they might have thought they were gazing upon a young, regal prince surveying his land. 

The truth of the matter was far less jovial and far more tragic.

The figure who stood atop the tower wasn’t quite as young as those onlookers might inevitably believe. He was small for his age; years of neglect did that to a person. One might think him a tall boy of eleven or twelve years old.

They would be wrong.

This boy was nearly fourteen. He would be in seven weeks’ time, and he would be entering his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Less than twenty-four hours ago, the still third-year boy in question had completed his final set of end-of-year exams.

That was the normal part of his day.

School was actually the most normal part of this boy’s existence. Excluding the countless number of near-death experiences he’d been through while residing within the school, naturally.

Yes, Harry Potter had been through a fair number of those.

Life hadn’t exactly given him any breaks.

If one ever wanted to complain about their own life, they might find small reprieve when comparing their own life to this boy’s. At the very least, it would surely put into perspective, for most people, that their own lives truly weren’t that bad.

When barely more than a year old, Harry Potter had lost his parents. They had been murdered in cold blood by the most feared dark sorcerer to walk the British Isles since Emeric the Evil. Despite the tragedy, it had appeared, for the briefest moment in time, as if life had perhaps sought to balance the scales. It had taken Harry’s parents away from him, but in return, it armed him with a defence so potent that it vanquished the Dark Lord. A feat that some of the best witches and wizards in the United Kingdom had failed to accomplish for more than a decade.

Any who thought it a fair exchange would be wrong. 

They would be viewed as naive for thinking that life always struck a perfect balance. The truth of the matter was that life was, and always would be, as ruthless as it is magical. 

Lord Voldemort, though vanquished for a time, hadn’t truly died that night. Worse still, he’d taken far more from young Harry Potter than just his parents. He had taken the two last decent members of his family and indirectly sentenced him to ten years of hell under his aunt and uncle’s rule. Ten years of hell where his bedroom would be a boot cupboard and his daily consumption habits would mirror that of a boy half his age, with half of his nutritional needs.

Yet the cruelty of circumstance and destiny had not stopped there.

Voldemort was hell-bent on returning any way possible, and he was willing to stop at nothing to see that reality come to light. Harry almost died while ensuring that exact prospect hadn’t manifested in his first year, when he had, yet again, vanquished Lord Voldemort with the help of his mother’s final gift. A defensive manifestation of her sacrifice so powerful that not even the deadliest of magics could touch him if cast by her killer. 

He supposed that in his second year, Voldemort hadn’t been directly responsible for the atrocities that befell the school. Much of the blame for that fell upon the well-dressed shoulders of Lucius Malfoy. Though he supposed Voldemort had initially created whatever the hell the diary had been, so the psychopath was far from blameless.

And then there was this year… Merlin, where to even start with this year.

Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban, where he had been imprisoned more than a decade ago for a crime he had never committed. Peter Pettigrew had framed him. The rat Animagus had done so masterfully. If not for the spell that Sirius and Lupin — the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor — had used to revert Pettigrew to his human form, Harry might have been fooled.

Not that it had mattered he wasn’t.

Pettigrew had escaped regardless, and that wasn’t even the worst thing that happened in the past number of hours.

Not by a long shot.

As the memories crashed into his psyche like an oncoming tide, piling the debris of despair upon his mind, Harry slumped down the side of the Astronomy Tower. He was completely unprepared to deal with the savage surge of emotion that poured into every fibre of his being, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.

This explained what most people might have mistakenly assumed was a look of disinterest while Harry Potter had been surveying the Hogwarts grounds.

The truth of the matter was that the look had been one of complete and utter numbness. He hadn’t a clue what to think or feel, and his facial expression had reflected his state of mind. 

It was far too much. All of it was far too much.

_**Sometime earlier…** _

Over the course of the last few hours, Harry’s brain had taken in about as much information as a human’s mind could possibly cope with.

Sirius Black — his godfather and the man whom he had suspected to be responsible for selling his mother and father to Voldemort was innocent. Peter Pettigrew — a man unanimously believed to be dead before tonight — was the true culprit. And to make matters worse, he’d been hiding right under Harry’s nose for nearly three years and the Gryffindor youth hadn’t even noticed. Neither had his best friend, Ron Weasley for that matter, but that seemed slightly more forgivable to Harry, even though he knew that sentiment made no sense and was utterly ridiculous.

Whilst on their way back up to the castle, the procession of students, fugitives, professors and traitors had been ravaged when one of the professors in question had made a rather horrible miscalculation. Harry would have gawked at Lupin’s idiocy if he himself had not been blatantly guilty of failing to employ common sense many times in the past three years. Walking into the light of the full moon around students, knowing that you’re a werewolf, had to be up there with lighting a match while bathing in gasoline in the ludicrously idiotic department.

The werewolf was mercifully driven off by Sirius Black, who was also apparently an illegal animagus alongside Pettigrew, because of-fucking-course he was. Speaking of Pettigrew, he’d escaped, and it had infuriated Harry beyond comprehension or belief. 

What had been worse was watching the scenes that unfolded next.

While chasing Pettigrew, Sirius had been ambushed by dozens of dementors — the tall, hooded figures who lorded over the hellhole that was Azkaban prison. Harry had converged on the scene as quickly as possible, but it hadn’t been enough.

No matter how many times he tried to conjure his patronus, he couldn’t quite do it. It would form and even surge forward, but the brilliant manifestation of hope and happiness would quickly be drowned by the metaphorical ocean of despair that ploughed forward to meet it.

Eventually, Harry heard Hermione scream and fall, and he joined her, prone and vulnerable on the ground not moments later. A dementor had leaned over him, drawing its horrid, rasping breaths and reaching up to pull down its hood, revealing its disgustingly disfigured face. Idly, in what he had assumed at the time to be his final moments of true life, Harry thought that he must be one of a very select few to actually see under a dementor’s hood.

Before he could suffer a fate deemed by most to be worse than death, a brilliant silver light filled his vision. It was quite obviously the light of a patronus, but it was far brighter than any patronus Harry had ever seen. Far larger, too. Unnaturally light, blindingly bright, and spine-tinglingly powerful, the stag patronus galloped majestically through the air and at long last, it had enough power to drive off the oncoming swarm of dementors.

Ruthlessly battling against the pull of unconsciousness, Harry looked up, with difficulty, and peered across the black lake. There, on its far shore stood a figure. One who, at the time, he had suspected was, somehow, his father.

Yet even that hadn’t been the most jarring revelation.

The most jarring revelation had come when he had looked to his left. It felt as if all of the oxygen in his lungs had been frozen solid, not only rendering it useless but transforming it into a legitimate hindrance. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. He tried to think, but it wouldn’t work. He tried to move, but he was unable.

Every fibre of his being had unilaterally paused in horror to gaze upon the nightmare made reality that quite literally laid in front of him.

It was Hermione, lying face up. 

She wasn’t dead, but that did nothing to crush the grief that began tearing at Harry’s very soul. For a time, he wondered if that would do what the dementor couldn’t and simply wrench his soul straight from his body. Hermione’s eyes weren’t lifeless, per se, but they lacked any spark of intellect or personality. It was as if somebody had flipped a dimmer switch. No emotion nor thought sparkled within the orbs. They were flat, dull, and stagnant, much like the useless container they now occupied.

He looked away as tears stung at his eyes, intent on seeing anything but the horror before him.

Yet it still got worse.

On his other side, lying in much the same position as his closest female friend was an emaciated figure with long, matted hair, sallow skin, and blurred grey eyes.

Harry couldn’t help it. 

He let out a moan of pure agony as he allowed the blackness to close in on all sides, pulling him under and into a realm that would hopefully contain much less pain than the one he’d just left.

_**Back in the present…** _

Harry’s heart nearly wrenched itself from his chest at the mere memory, yet even that hadn’t been all.

He had woken up in the hospital wing some time later and been almost immediately confronted by the somber visage of Professor Dumbledore. Harry had hurriedly explained exactly what had transpired to the venerable Hogwarts Headmaster, but he had done so in a detached, monotone voice.

And that was when yet another mind-blowing facet of the magical world had been revealed to him, as if it wasn’t a complicated enough place already.

Time travel supposedly existed, because of-fucking-course it did. Dumbledore had pulled a long, golden chain with an hourglass-looking pendant and explained to Harry exactly how his brilliant, muggleborn friend had managed to take as many classes as she had.

It explained everything.

From her utter avoidance of the topic, to the inconsistencies in her cover stories, to her impossible timetable.

Dumbledore had then made a proposition that was even wilder than the reality of his best friend being a time traveller. 

He, Harry, could use the time turner — which Dumbledore had taken from Hermione’s soulless body — to go back and change the events of the past.

For a time, the flames of hope had been stoked once more, and a roaring fire of pure resoluteness had been lit inside of Harry’s stomach, filling his chest, contracting his throat, and solidifying his resolve.

How naive he had been to believe.

To believe that he, an average, thirteen-year-old wizard could go back and change the events of the past, saving his best friend and godfather in the process, while simultaneously capturing the man who was truly responsible for his parents’ murder. 

He supposed ”average” may have been a bit harsh. He was no Merlin, but he was at least talented at Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had managed the fastest time in his year on the obstacle course Professor Lupin had set up earlier that day and it was far from rivalled. He also very much doubted anyone else in his year would be casting a Patronus Charm any time soon, let alone one strong enough to combat dozens of feral, soul-sucking demons.

For it had indeed been he who had cast the patronus that had spared his own past self’s life. And yes, wasn’t that just a lovely paradox of mind-bending complexities, possibilities, and problems. Any glimmering hope of his father — which had only strengthened when he’d been enlightened as to the existence of time travel — had been ruthlessly crushed the moment he’d been forced to spare his past self. He had no idea what would happen if he allowed his past self to die, but he also had no desire to find out. 

He hadn’t been quite quick enough in accepting the fact his father hadn’t arrived.

He had wasted valuable time trying to capture Peter Pettigrew. His efforts had once more been fruitless, and it had, in the end, been a major factor in his second consecutive failure. He had managed to save himself but for the second time that night, he was left gazing down on the soulless husks of Hermione and Sirius. This time, no mysterious time traveller had appeared to help him, which only meant one thing in Harry’s mind.

No matter what he did, there was no way he could prevent the outcome from taking place.

That thought had brought forth Trelawney’s words from earlier in the day, and he’d realized far too late that Pettigrew couldn’t be stopped. Fate had ordained it, after all.

“THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT. . . THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANT’S AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER HE WAS. TONIGHT. . . BEFORE MIDNIGHT. . . THE SERVANT. . . WILL SET OUT. . . TO REJOIN. . . HIS MASTER. . . .”

Going after Pettigrew had truly been his downfall, yet Harry couldn’t will himself to try for a third time. 

He couldn’t bear the sight of Hermione’s dull eyes and the vacant look on his godfather’s gaunt, but otherwise regal countenance. If he had to see any of that again, it would break him. The nightmares would be bad enough. He didn’t need to see it again in the waking world. Besides, he had a dreadful feeling any intervention he made would lead to the same, morbid outcome regardless.

If he was meant to time travel yet again, surely he would have seen that intervention come to fruition the last two times he had attempted to capture the traitor and save those whom he cared for.

They had doubtlessly found the bodies on the grounds by now. He hadn’t stayed around. He had bolted to the top of the astronomy tower as soon as possible, not caring that he wasn’t in possession of his invisibility cloak. That was with his past self when he’d succumbed to unconsciousness and present Harry, with his mind boggled and any chance of coherent thought voided, hadn’t possessed the wherewithal to grab the cloak.

It hadn’t mattered. 

He’d made it to the top of the tower easily enough, where he now sat shaking, still wearing the golden time turner; it’s metallic texture cool against his skin in the otherwise humid night. There was a moment while surveying the grounds when Harry had debated just throwing himself off the tower. He had gotten to that point. He had endured so much in his almost fourteen years of life, and he thought now, at long last, he had finally been pushed past his breaking point.

He couldn’t sit still anymore. 

Yet he couldn’t stand, either. 

His legs wouldn’t work, no matter how hard he tried. 

Even when he heard the thrum of voices below, doubtlessly investigating his absence and obviously coming up on the stairs that would lead them up onto the tower itself.

Harry’s shaking intensified. If he were found, he would have to explain what had happened. That would mean vividly reliving the atrocities of the past number of hours, something he was not only completely uninterested in, but rather adverse to as a whole. 

Yet he couldn’t stand.

Whenever he tried, his legs failed him, but he couldn’t face Dumbledore. Not when he would have to relive all that had happened, and not with the knowledge that he had failed.

It was all too much, and his hands, which so desperately needed to be doing something, twitched idly towards the golden band around his neck. 

If his theories about the inevitability of the night’s events were true, this would do little more than postpone the meeting that would be as inevitable as the events themselves. But it was good enough, for now. Anything was better than facing this, and he couldn’t just sit here and relive all of it.

He reached up towards his neck with shaking hands, extracted the time turner from the collar of his shirt and turned it — turned it many, many more times than he could count.

And swiftly relived the events anyway.

It was odd.

He was watching everything play out as if they were on fast forward, yet it was happening in reverse, and he seemed to be watching from a third person’s perspective. He had to be, for he couldn’t possibly be here again, watching the horrors of the night when he, Harry, was supposed to be sitting atop the astronomy tower.

He watched once more as Sirius and Hermione had their souls sucked out. He watched once more as Pettigrew escaped again, and then he relived the confrontation that had come before it.

But it didn’t stop there.

In fact, the replay of sorts he was experiencing only seemed to accelerate as he crashed back through time. 

He was in his Divination exam… no, his Defence exam. He was in classes, then flying against Draco Malfoy in the Quidditch final, and then back in classes for a significant period of time. 

Before he knew it, he was back in the kitchen on Privet Drive, watching Marge inflate like some grotesque balloon.

Yet still, it didn’t stop.

He was in the Chamber of Secrets, standing in front of a boy several years older and much taller than himself. A boy with hair as black as Harry’s and dark, blue eyes. Then, he was in Tom Riddle’s diary, watching him frame Hagrid as the Heir of Slytherin before he was back in the Slytherin common room, polyjuiced as Crabbe as he and Ron tried to pry Draco Malfoy’s non-existent secrets from him.

On and on it went.

He watched, once more, the rogue bludger, Dobby at Privet Drive, the confrontation in the catacombs of Hogwarts with Quirrell, the detention in the forest and on, and on, and on. 

Faster than he could believe, he was watching memories from before Hogwarts and still the speed at which he seemed to charge backwards through time increased. Soon enough, he was watching things he didn’t even remember, things he hadn’t been able to remember for several years.

It wasn’t long before he was back in Godric’s Hollow, watching Voldemort remorselessly tear down his family. He barely had time to register the pangs of fury and sadness before he recognized the day he was born.

And then… darkness — complete and total blackness, as he could neither see nor feel anything at all.

Harry didn’t know how long it was until he opened his eyes once more. It felt like only a second — little more than going to sleep — but he knew it might have been far longer. More disconcerting, however, was that when he finally did muster up the strength and energy to open his eyes, he didn’t recognize his surroundings.

They were vaguely reminiscent of King’s Cross Station, but this was most obviously not the train station housing the magical platform associated with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was so thrown off by his surroundings that it took him a moment to realize he was naked.

Until he thought that, at least. 

Once he did, soft, warm clothes moulded seamlessly to his body. They fit better and more comfortably than any clothes he’d ever had.

As he glanced at the vast, bright, unfamiliar space around him, he could do little more than voice his singular, predominant thought aloud. 

“Am I dead?”

“Complicated thing, that.”

Harry jumped about a foot in the air and whirled around. He went to go for his wand, only to realize he didn’t feel it in his pocket. At the thought, it materialized in his right hand, every bit as perfect as he remembered.

Speaking of memories, what he saw in front of him made his jaw fall agape.

He had seen these two people before, but only in dreams and dementor induced nightmares. And his most recent journey through what must have been time, he supposed. 

The man and woman were both of average height. The woman had a slim waist but a curvaceous figure, and the man looked lean and athletic. Ostensibly, Harry’s father — for this could be nobody but his father — had stayed in shape; even after his Quidditch days. Like his son, he had jet-black hair, and their facial features were nearly as identical as everybody made them out to be. The primary differences were their eyes and the fact that, unlike Harry, James’s glasses didn’t look like something out of a poorly illustrated cartoon. 

The woman who stood beside James had Harry’s eyes, just as everyone had told him for nearly three years. They looked a bit more alike than many gave them credit for. Harry noticed that while his appearance did primarily resemble that of his father, there were certainly hints of his mother’s softer features as well. 

For much of his childhood, he had envisioned meeting his parents. That dream hadn’t gone away when he had finally been taken away to Hogwarts. The image had just become clearer. In both cases, he always pictured that, if he met his parents, they would smile proudly out at him.

That wasn’t the case in reality.

They didn’t look displeased. Just… serious. 

Lily’s lips were thin and her eyes practically shot sparks. James, who had spoken, wore a hard expression and his face was set in a firm line of resolute determination. 

“Mum, Dad?” Harry’s voice was a whisper in the wind and barely discernible. Quite honestly, he was just impressed it hadn’t failed him altogether.

Lily smiled. It wasn’t a smile of joy. it was a sad, sombre smile, and the woman was very obviously trying not to have an emotional breakdown of her own. “Yes, Harry. It’s us.”

He had no idea how to react to that. Perhaps he was supposed to rush forward into the arms of his parents after all this time. 

Two things stopped him from doing that. 

He had never been overly fond of being touched at all. He had put up with it on the odd occasions when Hermione had forced it upon him — likewise in the case of Mrs. Weasley — but that had been about it. After years of associating touch with danger, it wasn’t an easy thing to become accustomed to.

The second was that, for an oddly ominous reason Harry couldn’t articulate, there was an… instinct, of sorts. A feeling that if he walked into the arms of his parents, he was sealing himself into something. 

Neither James nor Lily seemed to hold his reluctance against him. On the contrary, they beamed at him. In a sad, depressing sort of way, but there was definitely pride in their eyes. Why that emotion would exist after he had failed so utterly, Harry wasn’t sure.

“Am I dead?” he asked again, his voice only slightly louder than before.

James and Lily Potter exchanged glances before the former shrugged and spoke. “It’s like I said before. Complicated thing, that.” When James saw that answer clearly wasn’t going to cut it, he finally elaborated. “Honestly, Harry, you’re not really dead or alive right now.”

“What do you mean I’m not dead or alive?”

Now it was Lily’s turn to speak, and she did so with so much compassion and understanding that it made Harry’s heart ache. For a vague moment, he examined how his life could have been different had one or both of the two survived. He did not allow his mind to linger on that dream for too long. It was a depressing rabbit hole he’d gone down many times; one he had no desire to return to.

“Time travel isn’t something to be trifled with, Harry. Nobody has ever tried to travel back more than a few hours and come back.”

His heart sank. “Nobody?” Both parents shook their heads. “They died then?”

“Some of them,” James answered vaguely. “I don’t think there’s a set thing that happens, if truth’s to be told. I think time is always just going to be finicky. Like your mother said, it’s not to be trifled with. Funny things happen when you mess with time.” He winced. “Or… not so funny, most of the time.”

Lily shot him a somewhat annoyed, clearly exasperated glance. “What your father is trying to say is that the time turner had an… effect.” She paused. “Do you have any idea how many times you turned that, Harry?”

He blushed. “I… no. I have no idea.”

“Neither did the time turner,” said James with obvious amusement. “You turned the bloody thing so many times that it lost track and just booted you back as far as it could go.”

Harry’s eyes bulged. “As far as it—”

“Don’t worry,” Lily assured him. “You’re not going to end up in the Middle Ages, or something. When you travelled to before you were supposed to be born, well…”

“The universe doesn’t like getting kicked in the dick very much,” his father supplied.

“James!”

“Am I wrong?”

Lily hesitated. “Well… no, but that isn’t the point!” She sighed. “You went back too far, Harry,” she filled in. “You went back to a time in which you weren’t supposed to exist. The universe is a lot of things and it revolves around a lot of principles, and order is one of them. It doesn’t like when things happen that can change reality. Usually when that happens, it… rearranges events in a way that eliminates the threat to that reality.”

Harry’s stomach gave a jolt. “So I’m really dead then?”

“That’s where it gets complicated,” James said with a grimace. 

“And even more so because we can’t tell you everything,” Lily added.

“Why not?” 

This didn’t exactly make sense to Harry. If he was dead, what did it matter? If he wasn’t, surely they could explain something like this to him, since it didn’t seem as if it would be overly relevant.

“It’s just… the dead can’t impact the world of the living. That’s a rule of nature.”

“So I’m not dead?”

“No, not exactly,” James answered at last, running a twitchy hand through his windswept-looking hair. 

“But you said the universe—”

“Oh yes,” said James, the corners of his lips tugging upwards, “the universe did try to eliminate you.”

“Try?”

He sighed. “And here’s the part where we have to be cryptic and hope, if you go back, that you can figure things out.” He seemed to choose his next words very carefully. “Dumbledore’s told you about the connection between yourself and Voldemort, hasn’t he?”

“My scar, right?”

“Your scar, yes.”

Harry nodded. “He said it happened the night he attacked. The night…” his voice trailed off as he looked towards his mother, whose sad smile remained, emotion dancing in those familiar green eyes like beads of sunlight on the surface of a shimmering lake.

“When I sacrificed myself for you.”

Harry looked down towards his feet. “I never wanted you to die,” he muttered. “Not for me — not for anyone.”

Lily took a step forward and pressed a finger under a surprised Harry’s chin, tilting his head up to look at her. “I would do it again if given the choice.” The look in her eyes practically dared him to challenge her, but he did not dare.

“Even after I let you down?” He hadn’t meant to speak the words. They’d just sort of… tumbled out of him.

“Let us down?” James asked, sounding completely mortified. “Merlin’s balls, Harry, where in the ruddy hell did you ever get that idea?”

Harry looked up with visible reluctance. “I failed,” he said lamely. “Pettigrew got away. Sirius got kissed by dementors — so did Hermione. A fate worse than death, all because I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You’re human,” Lily said softly, tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes. “We all make mistakes, Harry. No thirteen-year-old boy should ever have to deal with anything like what you had to deal with. It is incredible that you did so well for so long.”

“We thought for sure we’d see you the night you went after that snake,” James muttered darkly, obviously referencing the basilisk that Harry had fought in order to permanently close the Chamber of Secrets. “Don’t ever say you failed, Harry,” he continued. “If it wasn’t for you, Snakeface would’ve come back at the end of your first year. Let’s not even talk about what would have happened in your second.”

Lily’s smile turned from sad to fond. “You have no idea how amazing you are,” she told him warmly. “I know Albus told you this at the end of your first year, but stop to think about it for a moment. Do you have any idea how few people could have looked into that mirror and seen something so selfless?”

“Funnily enough,” James said heavily, “that’s also the reason you’re here.”

“The mirror?”

“No, your selflessness. You really are an amazing person, but sometimes, the best people don’t always get the best results.”

Harry looked back at the two of them, puzzled and wide-eyed. “What about Professor Dumbledore?”

Lily sighed deeply. “Albus is a great person, but that’s part of the reason why he never did manage to beat Voldemort before the prophecy happened.”

“Prophecy?”

“Lily,” James said through gritted teeth, “we can’t—”

“Oh, come on, James. It will hardly matter now. If he goes back, it isn’t as if the prophecy is going to apply any more. It can’t, given what will happen.”

“True, true.” James turned to Harry. “Long story short, there was a prophecy that said you would have the power to destroy Voldemort and that one of you would have to kill the other in the end. Snakeface only heard the first bit, which is why he attacked us. To try and eliminate the threat nice and early.” He scowled. “Being too good a person doesn’t usually get you places, but karma really is a bitch when you go that far.” 

It was a mark of how strongly Lily agreed with that statement that she didn’t chide his verbiage.

Harry frowned. “So… what are you saying?”

“Be more selfish,” James answered. “Don’t be a prick, but you need to put yourself first sometimes. If you don’t, not only will you never enjoy your own life, but it probably won’t last long, in your case.” He obviously said that last part very grudgingly, but all present knew the words to be true. “Don’t just cave,” he continued. “Look into things. Decide what it is you want to do. Fight for what you believe in.”

“Yes, do that,” seconded his mother. “Educate yourself. Learn what it is you want to do, but also how to do it. I love Hermione, but you won’t always have somebody like her to help you.” Harry’s gut clenched. Boy, did he appreciate that statement right about now. “You’re the perfect boy. The perfect boy for others. All that we’re asking is that you be the perfect boy for yourself.”

Resounding silence rang through… wherever the hell they were. After a time, Harry sought to get back to one of his original questions. “So, I’m here…”

“Right,” James remembered. “The connection you had with Voldemort—”

“Had? It’s gone now?”

James genuinely smiled. “Yup — all gone now. That’s why you’re here.” He hesitated. “I...really can’t say much except for the fact the connection was a hell of a lot deeper than your minds. A… piece of Voldemort connected to you. That piece is what reality destroyed when it tried to get rid of you. It sort of acted as a shield.” James smirked. “Nasty shock for the bastard, I’m sure. I doubt it was meant to.”

“Remember what your father just said,” Lily ordered, sounding stern for the first time. “If you go back, it will be extremely important. You’re going to need to research… pieces of people. Pieces that can form deep connections.” She seemed to collect herself before adding, “Very dark magic. The worst of magic, but you can find the information. I know you can.”

“You said… if I went back? You’re telling me I have a choice?”

“You do,” said James, becoming all of a sudden a whole lot more business-like. “See, the thing is, you should be dead, but you’re not. Reality is still rather cross with you. It will let you live but only under certain… conditions.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Conditions?”

“The world you go back to won’t be the one you left. I couldn’t tell you more than that even if I knew, and I have no idea. I just know how the universe works. It won’t let you exist in the world you just left, because existing there should be impossible, for you.”

“But it will let you live,” Lily jumped in, obviously not hiding which option she would rather Harry chose. “It will let you live the rest of your life in a world where your existence doesn’t contradict something that’s already happened.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s going to send me back to some parallel universe? Where everything is different?”

“I doubt it,” James said thoughtfully. “That would be a whole hell of a lot of work. More than likely, it will send you somewhere with minor changes.”

“The thing about reality,” Lily began, taking on what was obviously her lecturing tone, “is that it’s infinite. There are an infinitely large number of realities out there. The reality you left won’t let you back, but a reality that is very similar will have no problems taking you, so long as your existence in that world doesn’t go against things that have already happened.”

“And you can’t tell me where I’ll land?”

“We have no idea where you’ll land.”

Harry looked at the two of them and made the admission that had been eating him alive ever since the notion of a choice was mentioned for the first time. 

“I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to fail again either.”

“Then don’t.” It was his father who answered, and his voice sounded so certain, Harry almost believed it.

“It isn’t that easy.”

“No, it’s not,” the man admitted. “Neither was learning the Patronus Charm at thirteen. Neither was surviving ten years of hell with those bastards who abused you. Neither was fighting Riddle at the end of your first year. Hell, killing that damned snake was anything but easy. But guess what? You did it all, didn’t you? This is no different.”

“You won’t fail so long as you work harder than ever.” His mother genuinely sounded as if she had no doubt. 

Their words might have been meaningless placations. Harry couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew was that after not hearing those voices for twelve years, their unwavering faith filled him to the brim with a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was almost like a phoenix’s song.

“You want me to go back, don’t you?” It was the final thing he needed to know.

“We want you to be happy,” his mother said softly, reaching out and cupping Harry’s cheek gently. Oddly, he didn’t feel any compulsion to pull away. Perhaps because it was her, or maybe it was just the fact that none of this was truly happening; at least, not in the physical sense. 

“You have a lot more to get out of life if you choose,” said James with a knowing smirk. “I think you’ll find all kinds of things and people to make you happy.” Lily shot him a mildly disapproving glare, likely for the more subtle implications that went way over Harry’s adolescent head, but she didn’t disagree.

Harry closed his eyes. “I’ll go back,” he said softly, his jaw setting in a resolute line. “But…” Merlin, this was an embarrassing and out of character question. “Can I have one hug? Just to know what it feels like, you know?”

Both of his parents beamed, stepping forward and engulfing him in warmth before, moments later, darkness overtook him again. Harry instinctively knew that the next time he opened his eyes, he would be in an unknown reality. One his world had never even been aware of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Instead of explaining all about this story in this endnote, I encourage all of you to go read the blog about it on my website. I not only explain the premise and the like in more detail, but I give insights you won’t find anywhere else, and I give some indicators as to what you can expect in this story. The blog can easily be found on my website, which can be accessed via a generic google search, or by following the link on my profile.**
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> **The only thing I will say is that there isn’t really an upload schedule for this, unlike Ashes of Chaos and Fabric of Fate. You will almost definitely get at least one chapter per month. It will largely depend on how quickly the audio chapters can get recorded.**
> 
> **Before I sign off, I would like to extend an additional acknowledgement to Raven0900. I’ve been toying with this idea since May of 2019, and it was with her help that I finally got it nailed down and could start writing it at long last.**
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> **On that note, follows, favourites and reviews would mean the world to me.**
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> **Stay safe and happy reading!**
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> **Thank you to my lovely Discord Editors Asmodeus Stahl, Athena Hope and Beatriche for their corrections/contributions on this chapter.**
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> **PS: The next chapter is available for my Discord members. The next three chapters are available to those generous individuals who support me on P*T*E*N at the $5 level or higher.**


	2. Star Gazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognizable characters, plots and settings are the exclusive property of J.K Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**
> 
> **Acknowledgements: Thank you to my editor Fezzik, as well as my betas Raven0900, Athena Hope, Luq707, and Yoshi89 for their work on this story.**
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> **This story is also being posted in audio form! Audiobook chapters are being posted on YouTube and Spotify at the exact same time these go up on site. So you can listen to this as an audiobook if you’d like. Huge shoutout to my narrator, CCCP, and my video editor, Ashabel, for their hard work on the project. The links can be found on my profile.**
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_**July 31, 1942  
The Leaky Cauldron  
2:30 PM** _

Harry’s world snapped into focus with all the suddenness of a well-disguised land mine. He expected something much like the way his life had faded into… whatever he’d just experienced. The place between life and death, he supposed.

That very thought made him shiver as goosebumps rose all over his body. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of dying. For a brief moment, while he had been suspended somewhere between the two planes of being, he had seriously considered not coming back, if only because he had absolutely no idea what he was coming back to. His father had been reasonably sure he wouldn’t be thrown into a world too different from his own, but he hadn’t exactly sounded confident, either. 

But the thought of death… it made Harry shiver, just a little bit. After so many brushes with the reaper, one might expect Harry to fear its ever-present shadow less than the typical mortal. This was somewhat true. It wasn’t as though he had been hesitant to throw himself treacherously close to the all-consuming abyss on multiple occasions. As his father had pointed out, the basilisk had very nearly thrown him over the edge.

Well, perhaps not. 

Perhaps whatever connection he’d shared with Voldemort would have merely meant his death would have been rendered moot and he would have been thrust back into the world that he knew.

It couldn’t have been that easy.

What scared him most, about death, wasn’t so much the concept as it was the sense of unfulfillment he would have if he were to die now. To say he was so young would admittedly be cliche, but Harry thought it rather apt. Especially seeing as about ten years of his life had hardly counted. It wasn’t as if he’d been able to explore much of what the world had to offer. Even while at Hogwarts, as much as he loved the castle, he had done little more than try not to die. It wasn’t as if he had truly experienced much of life itself. He had been too busy cleaning up the mistakes of the adults a vast majority of the time. 

He could understand the Chamber of Secrets.

He was a Parselmouth, which made him uniquely qualified for solving that particular problem. But the stone? Surely it shouldn’t have been he who solved that. Not to mention the mess involving Sirius…

Just the thought of his godfather made his heart ache. He had known the man for no more than an hour, but he had quickly ingratiated himself to Harry. More than that, it was just one more reminder about the horrid number of atrocities he’d been forced to endure during his life.

Hopefully, whatever subtle changes were made to the universe would result in his life being mildly less chaotic.

It was a naive thought.

He knew that even then, as he finally took the time to look around the shabbily furnished, dimly-lit room he now sat in. He knew the thought was naive but young, innocent Harry Potter could never have known exactly how naive and off the mark the thought truly was.

Unlike when he’d “died” earlier and the pale world he’d shared with his parents for a brief time slowly faded into existence, this had been different. 

The blackness had begun closing in on all sides while he shared the first and last hug with his parents that he would ever remember. 

Yet it hadn’t been a slow transition. 

Just as the darkness had all but blocked out his vision, Harry had blinked, and it had been as quick as that.

That also meant the entire experience was exceedingly disconcerting, which in turn meant it took him a large amount of time to gather his bearings.

He appeared to be alone in the corner of a booth — not unlike those found in muggle restaurants. The booth in question seemed to be situated in a particularly dark, out-of-the-way corner of the room he now sat in if his vantage point was anything to go off of.

Looking around the room itself, Harry realized with a jolt not quite as sudden as being thrust back into reality, that he recognized this place.

The low lighting, the weathered furnishing, the bar which dominated a large portion of the pub. Hell, he even recognized the barman, though he looked a lot younger than Harry remembered him, which was odd. It was hard to tell from a distance, but he actually appeared to have all of his teeth.

Harry wondered why, of all things, reality had decided to shift that minor detail. He vaguely remembered with some panic a muggle concept that always seemed to arise when speaking of dimensional travel. 

The butterfly effect.

He wondered if that was actually a thing in this world. At least he took small comfort in knowing that perhaps the only perk of being sent to an entirely different reality was that he couldn’t screw up his original one.

But he wondered if the butterfly effect applied. If it did, he wondered what had happened differently for Tom the barman to have all of his teeth intact. He also wondered, if that was the case, what kind of ripple effects a sudden dimensional traveller might have on the fragile balance of reality just as it was seemingly trying to sew itself back together.

He couldn’t worry about that.

Not now, at least.

It wasn’t as if he would be able to do anything about any changes that might have transpired. He would eventually have to observe them in order to know how to react, but beyond that, there was nothing to gain from worrying about what may or may not be different.

It was a far better use of his time to take stock of his current situation. If the disastrous end to his third year had taught him anything, it was that he needed to be a whole lot more aware of what was going on around him. Accepting the common gospel would no longer be good enough. Not after he’d felt the consequences of doing just that.

Padding down his pockets, he breathed an audible sigh of relief when he felt his wand resting within one of them. It appeared as if he was wearing standard black robes. There was no Gryffindor crest, nor any marking at all. The robes also seemed… different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why. They just felt… heavier? Rougher? Less comfortable? All of those things, but conjoined into one. It was no major difference, just significant enough to be noticeable while being subtle enough to not be obvious.

Why the world had sought to change his robes was yet another mystery to Harry, but it was quite minor in the grand scheme of things. Realistically, it wasn’t as if this minor change would have major impacts, so he thought it likely best to let it go.

He cursed as he stood, realizing he had no way of obscuring his face from the view of the number of witches and wizards currently present. That was unfortunate. He remembered the swarm of admirers he’d been forced to endure during his first trip to this very establishment with Hagrid before his first year. He wondered whether or not he was going to have to go through something similar now. He certainly hoped not. That had been bad enough the first time, and he’d had a giant of a man acting as crowd control. Without Hagrid, Harry didn’t even want to know how persistently the crowd would pester him, nor what extent said pestering would inevitably escalate to.

With an internal sigh, Harry supposed the best way to deal with the unpleasant reality of the situation was simply to cross the small pub as fast as possible. Hopefully, nobody would notice him. The odds were slim, not near favourable, but it was the best he could do at present.

To his great shock and bewilderment, he seemed to go completely unnoticed. He had never visited this establishment without being noticed, even if every occasion hadn’t been quite as memorable as the first. Just as he stepped out of the dimly-lit pub, squinting his eyes against the vividly bright stream of sunlight that sought to blind him, he chanced one, brief glance over his shoulder. Of all the gathered patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, the only one he remembered was Tom. He shrugged; it wasn’t exactly as if that was saying a whole lot. 

He tapped his wand on the correct brick. After doing so for most of the last summer, he doubted he would ever forget which one was correct. 

His jaw nearly detached when he stepped into Diagon Alley, but not for the same reasons as his first-ever visit. 

The first time Harry had visited the alley, its magic and illustriousness had blown him away. He’d never seen such a place, even ignoring the obvious aspect of magic that was perpetually in play around the alley. When adding that into account, it only exacerbated his fascination with Diagon Alley.

This time was different.

After last summer, he had very much doubted the sight of the alley would ever be jaw-dropping to him again. After all, he’d spent about half of his summer roaming Magical Britain’s largest metropolitan area. By the time he’d gone back to Hogwarts on September the first, he had practically memorized the alley and could picture it vividly and on command if he were to close his eyes and focus upon it.

Yet in contradiction to what he’d thought, this was what made the sight in front of him so striking. Indirectly, perhaps, but it was that picture-perfect image he could conjure up which made the sight in front of him so… wrong.

There was no other way to say it.

The sight in front of him wasn’t what he had expected. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

Most of what he saw was familiar, though some of it only vaguely so. Other things — like the towering, marble outline of Gringotts that dominated the skyline of the alley, even from a distance — hadn’t changed at all. But other things…

Many of the shops were not what he recognized. The alley’s main attractions still seemed present, from what he could tell. Gringotts, as earlier observed, stood tall and proud way down the street. Madam Malkin’s was there too, though the displays were different. 

In his world, there had been vibrant shades and colours prominently on display in the front window alongside the more standardized variety of robes. Now, there appeared to be nothing vibrant in sight. Even the most flamboyant robes on display were… muted. Positively dull compared to anything Professor Dumbledore might have found appealing. Many of the robes were black and grey, but even the ones that weren’t were dark, dull blues and reds. They looked almost faded, as if being viewed through a filter compared to what he was accustomed to.

The styling was different as well, even though Harry — who knew absolutely nothing about fashion — really wasn’t in a position to comment. 

Something began to stir in the deep recesses of his mind. Something small, sinister, and terrifying. A prospect that was felt more by his subconscious, if for no other reason than the fact his conscious mind didn’t want to even consider that impossibility.

Yet the irregularities stretched on.

The ice cream shop Harry had frequented for much of the summer before his third year was noticeably absent. The building was there, but it appeared to be some kind of antique shop. 

Harry’s heart began to quicken as his consciousness finally admitted defeat and allowed the sinisterly implausible possibility its subconscious had conjured up earlier to finally leak through, invading Harry’s imagination and spreading rapidly. It did so with the effectiveness and accompanying dread one might expect from a particularly deadly disease.

That couldn’t be possible, could it?

That was the plot of a million horrible muggle films. Usually, the overdramatized ones that perpetuated every bit of internal conflict for the sake of needless angst.

So, naturally, Harry did what any self-respecting protagonist in one of these films might have done.

He rapidly scanned the street and honed in on his target. 

The headquarters of the _Daily Prophet._

He marched towards the building with quick, panicked steps. The reality bowled him over before he reached the door. It did so as soon as his eyes rested upon the date plastered on the displayed paper for all to see.

_July 31st, 1942_

Harry didn’t freeze, or cry, or drop to his knees, or do any such action that the aforementioned protagonists from those horrid muggle films might have done. He hastened towards another, familiar landmark, one he could also use as a benchmark to judge whether or not the Daily Prophet was simply pulling a particularly cruel joke.

When he reached the windows of _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ and glanced to the broomsticks proudly on display, he finally accepted exactly what had happened.

Well, accepted may have been a strong word.

He accepted the fact that it had happened, but he was far from accepting of the fact that it was truly his reality now. That would still take some time. What else could you expect from a thirteen-year-old — no, wait — now a fourteen-year-old boy who had just been suddenly thrown half a century back in time? At the moment, he was completely numb to the reality, the horrible reality that was settling in his brain, which still seemed to want nothing more than to reject the possibility outright.

He hadn’t just been thrown into a different reality.

He had also been thrown back in time.

Like… way back in time.

In a twisted, warped sort of way, he supposed it made sense. He wasn’t sure how many times he had spun the time turner, but it had been a lot. The only reason he’d died in his world was that he had travelled to before his birth, so he supposed he should have expected to wake up in a time before he was born.

But this far back?

Fuck!

It hadn’t even occurred to him that since reality was now willing to let him exist, it would place him in whatever year the time turner might have taken him to.

1942.

He scoured his memory for things he knew about that year in particular.

There wasn’t much.

On the muggle side, it had been the height of World War Two. Soon after America had joined the ranks of the allied forces, if he remembered correctly. He thought it also about a year after the Nazis began their attempted invasion of the Soviet Union. An invasion that would prove to be fruitless and, in the eyes of many, be remembered as the turning point of the war. 

On the magical side…

He discernably winced. 

He knew even less. 

Binns had never covered anything from the twentieth century during History of Magic, and Harry hadn’t exactly been studious, even in the subjects he’d liked. He was beginning to realize exactly how foolish his lax behaviour in regards to his studies had been. Without Hermione to guide him, he felt weak, exposed, and helpless.

It wasn’t a fun feeling.

As he continued digging through his mind for anything he knew about the magical world in 1942, he made a silent vow to himself, though he supposed he had already promised as much to his parents.

No more slacking off.

He was going to be the best wizard he could possibly be. He’d managed to cast the Patronus Charm, for Merlin’s sake! It was the only feat of magic he had ever dedicated a considerable period of time to, and he had achieved it. Surely that meant something, right? Surely it spoke to the potential he could have if he was more willing to chase it?

He wasn’t sure, but he was sure as hell going to find out.

But back on track…

Harry had to admit defeat. He knew absolutely nothing about the magical world as of 1942. Nothing except for the fact that Grindelwald was still at large, since he hadn’t been defeated by Professor Dumbledore until 1945.

He wasn’t sure whether to jump for joy or bury his head in his hands at that revelation.

On one hand, he was pretty sure Voldemort wasn’t at large in 1942. Which meant that the psychopathic dark lord wouldn’t be after Harry’s head, at least not for quite some time. Hell, he might never come after Harry. Not with the changes made to the universe. Even if he did, at least Harry would have a head start. At least he would have time to prepare. It was far more than what he could say for his own world, in which he’d been thrust headlong into Voldemort’s path at the ripe old age of one. Exactly how much time he would have to prepare, he had no idea. He wasn’t actually sure how old Voldemort was…

Wait, that wasn’t right.

He at least had an idea.

The Chamber of Secrets had been opened in October of 1992. It hadn’t been closed until May of the following year, and if Draco Malfoy was to be believed — and Merlin, he, along with Voldemort, were probably the only things Harry wouldn’t miss — his father had told him the Chamber of Secrets had last been opened fifty years earlier. That had been in December of 1992. In the Chamber of Secrets, Tom Riddle had also bragged about how he had been preserved in memory form, in the diary fifty years ago.

He’d been… sixteen? Seventeen? 

He hadn’t said. Harry just knew him to be a Prefect at the time the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. His age was hard to place. He was exceptionally tall by any standards, but that wasn’t exactly a strong fact to judge by.

But it wasn’t necessary to know exactly how old Riddle had been.

He had been in the twilight of his Hogwarts years in the early-to-mid 1940s. Harry couldn’t be sure he and Lucius Malfoy had meant fifty years exactly, or whether they’d just been rounding. After all, fifty years ago sounded much better than forty-eight years ago for an arrogantly monologuing villain. Forty-eight just didn’t have the same ring to it.

Yet even that wasn’t much help.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure when Voldemort had become a true threat. A decade before his parents died? Was that what Hagrid had implied? He couldn’t honestly remember, nor had he ever looked further into Voldemort’s war. This thought made his face burn with heat as his insides writhed with shame. He really had been lazy and foolish.

But no more.

However long he had to prepare for Voldemort, he would take.

That was if Tom Riddle even became Voldemort.

He supposed it was possible he wouldn’t. His father had suggested that most likely, not too much would change compared to the world he had resided in, but that had pretty much been thrown out the window when he’d woken up thirty-eight years before being born.

Merlin… that was a sentence and a half.

But even without Voldemort, there was Grindelwald to contend with.

He knew almost nothing about the man. Just that, until Voldemort had risen, he’d been viewed as quite possibly the most dangerous dark wizard of all time. Oh, and of course the fact that Professor Dumbledore had defeated him about three years from now.

He really needed to learn more about Grindelwald.

Apparently, the world was all too willing to give him first-hand experience.

Harry’s senses tingled as his hair stood on end. 

Something had changed. Something he could not yet quantify.

It wasn’t long before the screaming started, and Harry’s eyes widened. 

Now, it was blatantly obvious what had changed, and he quickly scampered out of the way, ducking through a side alley and trying to keep his jaw attached.

A mob had appeared from nowhere. 

As in, literally appeared.

Harry had to blink several times to make sure he’d actually seen that. He knew wizards had floo travel — a nearly instantaneous method of traversing long distances — but what he had just witnessed was something else altogether. Something he hadn’t known to be possible.

Magical Merlin, he needed to start reading.

Every last member of this mob was dressed in grey from head to toe. All of them wore large hoods, obviously pulled up to obscure their faces from view. On their backs, Harry could see from his vantage point that they all wore the same symbol. 

A symbol that he had never seen before.

It was an odd, triangular symbol, but it was difficult to make out more than that from this distance. It somehow sent a shiver down his spine for reasons he could not articulate.

The mob seemed to take up refuge in the centre of the alley, firing curses indiscriminately and in every direction. One of the smaller, shabbier shops had been lit ablaze, and others still had their windows shattered. That wasn’t even to mention the alley’s now mostly screaming occupants, the slower of whom to get away falling to spellfire, one by one. 

Needless to say, it was complete and total pandemonium. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw three groups of three figures break off from the crowd. Each group seemed to head off in a different direction, and Harry observed that nobody else appeared to have noticed them. Harry saw one group in particular heading off in a familiar direction.

They were moving towards Ollivander’s. 

His heart quickened as the world around him seemed to slow down, his speed of perception rising in unison with his suddenly heightened levels of adrenaline. 

He knew this was stupid. He was a thirteen-year-old boy that was fairly talented in Defence Against the Dark Arts. These were three adult wizards who had obviously completed their education and were just as unmistakably dangerous.

But something inside him couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t stand by and let them escape.

He couldn’t stand by and let them torch the old man’s shop; the place where most witches and wizards in Britain received their first wand.

It was wrong, and Harry’s sense of morality was just too strong.

With a deep breath and a sigh that indicated he knew exactly how foolish this was, Harry skulked after them.

_**Meanwhile, in Slug and Jiggers Apothecary…** _

Horace Slughorn was rather cross.

The owner of this particular apothecary was driving an unreasonable bargain. He knew how much powdered griffin claw cost. It was about half of what this man was trying to sell it to him for, and he was being downright unreasonable about the whole thing.

He’d been in the shop for about an hour negotiating when all hell broke loose.

The first indicator that something was wrong was the screams coming from somewhere outside. For about a minute, Horace resolutely tried to ignore them. He was determined to get the griffin claw, and he wasn’t going to let some accident out in the streets distract him from that goal.

After a full minute of constant screaming had elapsed, he knew something was out of the ordinary. Once he started hearing explosions, he paused in mid-sentence. 

That wasn’t good. 

He had no idea what it was, but it definitely wasn’t good.

As if to confirm his suspicions, he felt an odd, prickling sensation on the back of his neck, and he knew about a second before it made itself obvious that danger had arrived. 

He drew his wand just in time.

The front wall exploded, revealing three wizards in grey, hooded cloaks, all of them throwing around rather heinous magic.

Several patrons of the shop fell. Some to simple curses, some to much more. A shelf near Slughorn and Mr. Jigger exploded, sending shards of glass and rather destructive concoctions raining down upon them. 

Mr. Jiggers had been caught completely unaware. He dove to the floor in a completely futile effort to not get buried under potions and glass, but Slughorn was faster. Without a word, he summoned a spherical shield of magic, protecting them on all sides.

The glass ricocheted harmlessly off of the shield, and the liquids stored within the vials rolled off of the barrier like water off a windshield. Several spells careened towards them, but none of the initial volleys were potent enough to break Horace’s shield.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

That certainly would have done it, but Horace hadn’t been foolish enough to rely solely on a shield. His wand had already been in motion before the Killing Curse had been fired, and the glass which had rained down all around him had already begun to rise into the air. By the time the sickening green light drew near, its path was obstructed by a wall of glass. The offending barrier shattered on impact and burst into green flames, but it saved the Hogwarts Potions Master and, more importantly, gave him time to get his wits about him and fight back with something of his own.

A large flock of ravens bore down on his assailants. They weren’t overly problematic, but they did buy Horace enough time to put his true plan into motion. The next gesture he made with his wand sent dozens of vials soaring towards the attackers just as they managed to thwart his birds. Just before the projectiles could make contact with their rather taken-aback-looking targets, Horace vanished their containers with a flick of his wand. The three men’s screaming could be heard throughout the shop as the volatile concoctions mixed and bubbled sinisterly on their skin.

From there, it was all academic.

The men hadn’t expected any resistance. It wasn’t that they weren’t skilled — they had just been caught completely off guard. They had expected the shock of their arrival to overwhelm any opposition. They certainly hadn’t expected the rather talented Head of Slytherin House — which, by nature, meant Horace was also prepared for any situation.

And by this point in time, now that most of the shock had worn off, the few wizards still standing in the dimly-lit apothecary had their own wands drawn, and suddenly, the attacking forces found themselves vastly outnumbered.

Horace wiped sweat from his brow as he idly twirled his moustache. There was still screaming from outside. He was going to need to leave at some point, if for no other reason than to make it to the nearest apparition point and get the hell out of the alley. It was best to do so now, before more maniacs decided to show up and make his life even more miserable.

Honestly, he hadn’t even gotten the damned griffin claw.

_**Moments later, outside Ollivander’s…** _

Harry realized he was going to die just seconds after he made his opening move.

He had followed the three men — whom he later realized were masked as well as hooded — as discreetly as possible. It quickly turned out that his earlier assumption was correct. Their target was indeed Ollivander’s. They spoke in a language he vaguely thought might have been German, so he couldn’t exactly make heads or tails of it, but he got a general idea of what they were saying.

They planned to burn it to the ground.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Right about now, he desperately wished he had his cloak. It had been with his past self when he’d driven off the dementors and, in his haste to get away from all of it, he had been foolish enough to not retrieve it.

Less than thirty minutes after arriving in this new, alternate universe, he was going to pay the price for his shortsightedness. Most probably, the payment was going to be his life.

So much for doing better this time around.

When the three men had their backs turned, Harry had leapt from a side alley and rained as many spells down upon them in as short a time as he could manage. One of them was struck by a Full-Body-Bind as they turned to face him, but the other two weren’t. One of them shielded, whilst the other just sidestepped. 

That was when Harry came to a startling realization.

However talented he might have been in Defence Against the Dark Arts, he was only talented in the specific scope of the class. He’d never put in a whole lot of extra-curricular research. If he lived through this experience, that was something he planned on changing. Unfortunately, he really didn’t like his odds of living through this experience.

He didn’t seem to know any spell powerful enough to breach the shields the men conjured, and Harry instantly knew he would die. 

One of them shielded both he and his partner as the other went on offence. Harry couldn’t break the shield and he didn’t know enough defensive magic to stay alive long. The only shield charm he knew of was the Aegis Vocar shield. That was a low-level shield charm that moved with the caster, but it was meant primarily as a defence against fairly minor jinxes and hexes. Certainly not curses, least of all those of a similar nature to the ones being carelessly thrown around by the masked man who attacked him.

A jet of pale green light neared him, and Harry instinctively knew he couldn’t be hit with that spell. He dove to the side, rolling on impact and avoiding two more spells while in motion. As soon as he was on his feet, he returned fire with another three successive Full-Body-Binds. They impacted against the man’s shield one after another, quick as gunfire, but the shield didn’t break, even though Harry could see the man wince as if holding it had become physically taxing.

Harry’s body was aching. When he’d rolled to avoid that last curse, he’d done a number on himself. The sleeve of his robe had been severed by a grazing curse a while ago, and the exposed skin had been sliced quite efficiently by the pavement as he’d rolled. He was also tired. Without knowing adequate defensive magic, he’d been forced to rely solely on movement. Dodging, feinting, diving and the like, which was naturally fatiguing, especially since he wasn’t in the best of shape. 

All the purebloods might have thought Quidditch got you into shape, but the lot of them were morons. You were on a broom the entire time, for Merlin’s sake. Seeker drills had helped his reflexes and reaction time, but there was a difference between having fast reactions and being in shape.

Having spent most of his primitive years locked in a cupboard and neglected of true nutrition, he wasn’t exactly the shining bill of health. He could run, that much was true, and his endurance wasn’t terrible; likely thanks to his oaf of a cousin. But “Harry Hunting” was a distant memory now, and it wasn’t exactly as if he’d kept up running since first arriving at Hogwarts. He was also a bit underdeveloped for his age, which didn’t help matters pertaining to his physical fitness.

All of this was to say Harry was defeated and he knew it. His chest heaved with heavy breaths as his legs trembled and his elbow continued to sting in the humid, afternoon air and bleed on the hot concrete all around him.

“BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”

Just as the man on offence went to cast, another voice cried out from behind Harry. A bolt of red energy shot past him and impacted against the ground a bit to the man’s right. The paved walkway exploded, sending debris everywhere. 

But it wasn’t random. 

As the debris was freed, it all began to hurtle towards the backs of the two wizards attacking Harry, and thus bypassing the shield that was conjured to cover their front. 

The man on offence did realize what was happening, and he was fast enough to protect himself, but not fast enough to protect the man beside him. He was struck in the head by a fairly heavy block of stone, and he slumped to the ground like a puppet who’d had its strings cut, clearly unconscious at the very least.

Seizing his opportunity, Harry dove to the side once more, allowing his assailant and saviour to duel. The magic was impressive. The man who’d saved him animated objects and sent them towards his attacker. His attacker blasted them to pieces, only for his saviour to transfigure said pieces into a pack of rabid animals, which drove the masked man back. When Harry came to his feet, he too added his own, less impressive spells to the onslaught, and the masked vigilante turned and tried to flee, but he didn’t make it very far before falling.

Harry might not have known it, but the man had been fleeing towards the nearest apparition point. Just as he did so, Aurors apparated into the alley. Needless to say, the man wasn’t prepared for a squad of them to appear in front of him, and he fell quickly and without much drama.

Only when he fell did Harry take the time to look around. The man who’d saved him had drawn near now. He was a portly man of rather short stature. Aside from his rotund form, his most striking features were his odd, green eyes — which oddly resembled gooseberries — and his silvery, walrus moustache.

“I say, are you alright, dear boy?”

“I’m… I’m fine, sir.”

The man frowned. “None of that, none of that. I can see you’re a bit banged up.” He glanced over Harry’s shoulder to the Aurors who were now approaching them. “I imagine we’ll be rather… er, held up by questions from these fine gentlemen, but perhaps you’d let me treat you to a late lunch in the Leaky Cauldron? Such bravery should be rewarded, after all.” He chuckled, and then inspected Harry more closely. “Not a Hogwarts student, eh?”

Harry had to think fast. He technically was a Hogwarts student, but that was fifty years from now. Of course, the man wouldn’t recognize him. “I’m… new to the area, sir.”

“Oh,” the man’s eyes gleamed with interest. “All the more reason to become well-acquainted then. I would be more than willing to help a young boy like yourself out.” He extended a hand. “Horace Slughorn. Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts.”

With some trepidation, Harry reached out and took his hand. He was mercifully spared from giving his own name by the Aurors, who chose that moment to intrude on their conversation. They asked a large number of questions about what had just happened, while their dozens of counterparts continued to drive off the central mob of grey-cloaked figures. By now, Harry realized they had merely been a distraction for the number of smaller groups. If not for the millions of other thoughts on his mind, he might have wondered what had happened to the other small groups of terrorists.

_**Sometime later, in the Leaky Cauldron…** _

Harry had just bottled it, he was certain.

He and Slughorn had spent a significant chunk of time speaking with the Aurors before heading into the pub together. Harry had been briefly tempted to turn down the offer, but doing so would have been quite rude after this man had just risked his own life in the process of saving Harry’s.

Once they’d sat down, exactly what Harry hadn’t wanted to happen had occurred.  
The man had started asking questions, and Harry had to think on his feet.

He was good at that when it came to actions, but not so much with words. 

His story had been that he’d lived out of the country with his muggle parents. He had attended school for three years, but then his parents had died in an attack by Grindelwald’s forces. It was similar enough to his own backstory with Voldemort, so it came to his imagination easily. 

Coincidentally, that was exactly what the attack on the alley had been chalked up to. If Slughorn was to be believed, Grindelwald himself had never attacked Britain. From time to time though, he did send smaller, not-so-experienced squads to Britain as a scare tactic and a way for new recruits to get some experience. 

His story had been as unconvincing as it had been vague, as far as he could tell. Once he’d finished, Slughorn sat back and twirled his silver moustache around his finger. 

“Charming,” he mused. “Can I be completely honest with you, m’boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.” Harry opened his mouth to cut in, but Slughorn raised his hand. He didn’t look upset. He actually looked… amused. “I don’t need you to spill all of your secrets, I’m just telling you that you need a much more convincing story.” He chuckled. “I could help you with that, of course, but you’d need to tell me… a few things.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What kind of things, sir?”

Slughorn leaned forward, seeming to be far more interested now. “Nothing too evasive, I don’t think.” He hesitated. “Are your parents really… not with us anymore?”

The thought of Harry’s parents was suddenly a lot more painful now that he’d actually seen and, on some level, spoken with them. “Yes, sir.”

Slughorn winced noticeably and sighed very deeply, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with a napkin. He looked greatly pained, and Harry’s proclamation seemed to age Slughorn by at least a decade. “I’m greatly sorry for your loss. I lost my own mother several years ago, you see. My father… well, he died when I was quite young.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not to worry, m’boy, not to worry.” He seemed to choose his next words very carefully. “You’re not from England.” It was more of a statement than a question. “You know magic — you’re very talented, at that — but you didn’t recognize the Aurors.” 

It was true. In the three years Harry had spent in the magical world, they’d never come up in conversation with Ron or Hermione. Apparently, they were a branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. They seemed to be something like the wizarding equivalent of the military.

“No, sir. My parents were British. They migrated before I was born.”

Whether Slughorn believed him or not, Harry had no idea. It didn’t seem to matter, either, as the large man sat across from him didn’t seem too bothered in the particulars. “Interesting, interesting. Not from a family that would be important in our world, are you?”

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what the man meant by that, but he shook his head. Easier to stay as low-key as possible. 

Slughorn nodded thoughtfully. “And you want to stay in Britain?” Harry nodded. “Yes, I can help with that.” 

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “You can?”

“Yes, I dare say I have enough owed favours to be of assistance.”

“You… would?” 

Harry wasn’t sure why Slughorn might help him. They’d just met, after all. Helping a complete stranger didn’t seem very typical. Least of all from a Slytherin. Harry was sure if the man was going to help him, there would be an ulterior motive behind it, but he didn’t much care so long as the man could be of some assistance and didn’t ask an unreasonable amount in return.

“Certainly,” Slughorn said jovially. “I did tell you I lost my father. I know how… unpleasant that is. Why, at such a young age, as well. How old are you, m’boy?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

Judging by the look on Slughorn’s face, he had expected younger, but he didn’t say that. “Right you are, of course. Fourteen… so fourth year at Hogwarts. Hmm… yes, yes, this could certainly work. Yes, I’ll help you out. It shouldn’t be too difficult, and it would be a shame to see such talent go to waste.” He winked at a rather perplexed-looking Harry.

“Talent, sir?”

“Of course, of course. You were doing quite well before I arrived, weren’t you?”

Harry frowned. “I couldn’t break their shield. I would have died.”

Slughorn waved away his protests. “I might be a man of many flaws, but I know talent when I see it. You’ve got great instincts and a sharp mind. Your spell casting is very good, too. Fast, crisp, precise. Limited, of course, but nothing some reading and… help won’t fix.” His eyes had an odd gleam as he said the word “help” and Harry could do nothing but wonder exactly why that was. “I couldn’t let such talent go to waste,” the man continued. “To do so in the wake of your parents’ untimely passing.” He shook his head sadly. “No, it won’t do; I won’t have it.”

Harry could hardly believe his luck, but he remained skeptical. “What’s the catch, sir?”

“Catch?” asked Slughorn with a small, upward twitch of his lips. “Why, m’boy, there’s no catch at all. I don’t do such a thing for payment.” He shot him a rather conspiratorial glance. “Though if you do feel as if you need to repay me to fulfill your unmistakably impressive sense of nobility, I would be… excited to see you in a little group I’ve put together at Hogwarts.” He winked enigmatically. “But I also wouldn’t say no to a box of crystallized pineapple.” He chortled before becoming a lot more business-like. 

“I will need your name though, I’m afraid. Records must be put forth for you to attend Hogwarts, after all.” When he saw Harry hesitate, he winked once more. “Any name, m’boy.”

“Harry,” he answered. If he didn’t give his last name, there shouldn’t be any problems.

Slughorn twirled his beard. “Harry, Harry. It’s rather… muggle.”

Harry frowned. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Of course not,” Slughorn said reassuringly. “But certain people will be… judgemental. Important people, at that. Perhaps a compromise. Your name is Hadrian, but you much prefer the less garish Harry. Nobody will use your ‘real name’ anyway. Only the most stuck up of bureaucrats” Harry mulled it over for about five seconds before nodding. So long as people called him Harry, he wouldn’t be overly concerned. “Surname?” Slughorn asked, business-like once more.

Potter was out, and Harry quickly dismissed Black as well. If History of Magic was at all accurate, the Blacks were an old family. Binns had referenced them before. So that wouldn’t do. Thinking of the Blacks made Harry think of Sirius. Which, in turn, made him think of Astronomy, and a sudden idea struck him.

“Pavonis.”

Slughorn blinked several times. “The constellation?” 

Harry nodded. He thought it an apt way of honouring his godfather. Taking on a name born of a constellation was as close as he would get to keeping something of Sirius with him. 

Slughorn chuckled. “Pavonis, eh? I do like my stars, Harry, I will admit. A fitting name for one whom I have high hopes for. If I have my way, m’boy, you’ll be one of the most brightly shining stars I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please don’t have a stroke just because I used the name Hadrian.**
> 
> **I am aware of how cliche the name is. Harry will only be referred to by that name when speaking to extremely snobbish purebloods who are not openly friends with him. Harry Pavonis also just doesn’t sound right, for some reason. The conflict of syllables, I think. That and, if truth be told, I rather like the idea of writing what I hope will be a well-written fic with the name Hadrian, since most of the ones out there are awful, hence the horrible stigma surrounding the name. I find the idea oddly amusing, and Slughorn’s point about appealing to the purebloods with a more wizarding name is very in-character for him, in my opinion. See the way he was surprised by Lily being muggleborn for evidence of this.**
> 
> **I won’t spill why Slughorn helped Harry, but the hints are there. For now, we shall call it an investment in talent. The man is a collector and an opportunist at heart.**
> 
> **Finally, Harry might have seemed very ignorant in this chapter, since he was unaware of Apparition as well as Aurors, and his spell selection was very limited. This is because, in canon, all of this was true until year 4. Harry will be competent, just give him some time. Character development is rather fun, after all.**
> 
> **Please read and review.**
> 
> **Thank you to my lovely Discord Editors Asmodeus Stahl and Κυρία της φωτιάς, Lily of Dreams for their corrections/contributions on this chapter.**
> 
> **A massive thank you is also extended to my first top-tier Patron, Κυρία της φωτιάς, Lily of Dreams, for her generous support on that platform! An additional shoutout is extended to my Oracle-level Patron, 3CP, for his unwavering support as well. Your guys’ support means the world to me.**
> 
> **PS: The next chapter is available on my Discord server, and the next three are up on my Patreon page.**


	3. Enigmatic Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognizable characters, plots and settings are the exclusive property of J.K Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.**
> 
> **Acknowledgements: Thank you to my editor Fezzik, as well as my betas Raven0900, Athena Hope, Luq707, and Yoshi89 for their work on this story.**
> 
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> 
> **This story is also being posted in audio form! Audiobook chapters are being posted on YouTube and Spotify at the exact same time these go up on site. So you can listen to this as an audiobook if you’d like. Huge shoutout to my narrator, CCCP, and my video editor, Ashabel, for their hard work on the project. The links can be found on my profile.**
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_**August 9, 1942  
The Home of Horace Slughorn  
6:43 PM** _

The sound of utensils clinking against plates slowly died at the lavishly decorated table that dominated Horace Slughorn’s dining room. The man in question had finished his meal some time ago, but his young charge was a rather slow eater. He never did eat much, either — Horace usually needed to coax him into eating three meals at all. Considering this, he was more than willing to wait for the young boy before him to finish, so long as he did indeed consume his meal at some point.

The young boy in question, Harry Potter — now Hadrian Pavonis — reflected on the last nine days spent at Horace’s not-so-humble abode.

After the conversation that followed the attack on Diagon Alley, Horace had agreed to house Harry for a short period of time. During which, he would be searching for a more suitable home for him long-term while he wasn’t at Hogwarts.

And Merlin was Harry happy that Horace had somehow gotten him into Hogwarts. He had no idea how the man had done it; all he knew was that his Hadrian Pavonis alias was now a full-blown identity that could withstand a thorough, legal investigation. He hadn’t asked many questions. Horace had given a vague answer about the perks of having friends in high places and Harry wisely hadn’t inquired any further.

He was skeptical though. He had been adopted once before and that hadn’t gone at all well. Being starved and shut up in a cupboard for most of the time spent in the home of that adopted family wasn’t exactly a great precedent. He didn’t tell any of this to Horace, but the man had still picked up on Harry’s nervousness early on and assured him he would make sure he trusted the family Harry was sent to.

That was another thing he was skeptical of.

Why would a wizarding family want to take in some random teenager who they knew nothing about? The Dursleys certainly hadn’t been pleased to care for him, and they were actually family. Petunia was, at the very least. Harry failed to see why any unrelated wizarding family would be at all interested in housing him. Horace had never shared these concerns. If half of what the man said was true, he was easily the most well-connected person the former Boy-Who-Lived had ever met. He seemed more than sure he would easily find a family that would be all too willing to take Harry in. 

According to him, the difficult part wasn’t going to be finding a family who was willing to take Harry. The difficult part would be deciding which family would best suit Harry, both personally and politically.

Harry had looked dumbly back at him the first time the man had mentioned politics, but Slughorn had given him a sort of crash course on the subject.

He was still largely ignorant, but he knew the absolute basics. 

The Wizengamot was the governing body of Magical Britain. Wizengamot seats were largely hereditary and there was a complex hierarchy in Magical Britain. Depending on how old and influential a family was, the seatholder for a family would have a designated number of votes. Founding Twelve Houses were at the top of the ladder, with Ancient and Most Noble Houses, Ancient and Noble Houses, Ancient Houses, and simple Houses ranked below them, in that order. 

The Founding Twelve families were the descendents of the group credited for the founding of the Wizengamot in 1066 A.D. The body predated the Ministry of Magic by several centuries and it was apparently considered the true founding of Magical Britain. Ancient Houses were families that had been in the country for a designated amount of time, and the two rungs in between were even more complicated. Any family in those groupings had spent the necessary time in the country to be considered an Ancient House, but they had also had a certain number of Order of Merlin recipients, Ministers for Magic, or Hogwarts Headmasters in their history.

Houses were more simple. If a family had the money to pay the exorbitant fees that would annually be required to keep their seat active, they could petition the court to be given status as a House. The petitioning was really just a formality. It almost never failed to pass, since the Wizengamot wasn’t exactly shy about collecting more galleons.

Harry had also learned that the Wizengamot was divided into factions, much like most muggle nations. He’d heard Vernon say something one time about how people were always going to divide into factions when given the opportunity. It was apparently in their nature, at least speaking in political terms. Harry had no idea whether or not that was actually true, since he hadn’t known a damn thing about politics before arriving here, but he supposed the wizards of Britain were evidence supporting his uncle’s argument.

The next major component of the Wizengamot was fairly simple, though Horace had heavily stressed to Harry that he shouldn’t just look at the common, uneducated summary. That summary was that there were three factions. The Liberals, the Neutrals, and the Conservatives. Respectively, they were viewed by many as the Light, the Grey, and the Dark. 

Horace encouraged Harry to look deeper into the matter. He said that such black and white categorizations were foolish and that they only told a tiny bit of the complex story. Harry was going to stay out of it for the time being, but if it ever became necessary to know more, Horace had given him a book on the matter.

And one on etiquette… 

Merlin, Horace had drilled etiquette into him like no other. He implored Harry to continue the practices and progression while at his new family’s home over the summer, and he stressed not only how important it would be at Hogwarts, but also that he would likely still be rather far behind his peers. 

Harry wondered how different Hogwarts was now as opposed to his own time. He couldn’t remember any of that being overly relevant, though perhaps it was a Gryffindor thing. Slughorn was the Head of Slytherin House, after all; something that had made Harry more than a little bit suspicious of the man early in their relationship. Since arriving at his home though, Harry had grown to appreciate Horace greatly and it forced him to somewhat rethink his narrow-minded beliefs surrounding the Hogwarts house system. 

Perhaps it wasn’t quite as black and white as he had always imagined. Perhaps his dealings with Slytherins like Malfoy, his stooges, Parkinson, and the Quidditch team had been the exceptions, not the norm.

The thought of his own reality sent a sharp pang of sadness through Harry, ripping vigorously through his stomach and clawing viciously at his chest. 

Merlin… had he ever botched his former reality.

He would have to make a very conscious effort not to do that this time around. He only hoped that all of this extra nonsense Horace was forcing him to do would be conducive to this goal.

He needed to be better.

He had mostly accepted the fact that his timeline was lost and he would never get it back. That didn’t mean he liked it, nor that he was okay with it. But he had very begrudgingly accepted it. In a warped, twisted sense, he was almost grateful for the reset. 

Looking into Hermione’s and Sirius’s unseeing stares had been far too much. He had intuitively known no matter what he did, he would be unable to change that most unfortunate event. After a ridiculous amount of reflection over the past nine days, Harry had realized that a reality in which he had to suffer the consequences of that fateful night wasn’t a reality he would look forward to living in.

Not that he was grateful for being thrown fifty years back in time. 

He was going to miss much from the world he knew. Ron, for example, would be a loss he mourned, probably for the rest of his life. 

And there were other things he would miss as well. 

The exhilarating thrill of victory alongside his Gryffindor teammates, who would likely have been his lifelong friends. He would miss summers at the Burrow and the smell of the polish he ritually applied to his Firebolt. He would greatly miss the feel of his invisibility cloak, its liquid-like texture flowing effortlessly down his skin, consuming him in an impenetrable current of protection.

But Hermione and Sirius… their losses had very nearly broken him. He had realized some time ago that if not for the exceptional circumstances that had seen him thrown headlong into the past, it might well have driven him to madness.

None of this was to say he was over being thrown back in time. He still dreamt horrible dreams about the future that could have been. He saw horrible visions every time he closed his eyes. Visions of a resurrected Voldemort running roughshod over all of his friends, whispering to Harry that he and he alone could have prevented it. He saw Professor Dumbledore’s broken body fall from the astronomy tower. He saw Professor Lupin fall to a purple blur of a spell, one that he did not rise from. He also saw the vision that had haunted him for most of the year; the vision that had served as his dementor-induced hellscape until he had finally and mercifully gotten a handle on the Patronus Charm.

His mother pleaded with Voldemort before Harry’s world was consumed in the same green light that had cruelly taken her away from him.

“Are you alright, m’boy?”

Harry’s head snapped up, hardly registering what the man across from him had said. He blinked several times, trying not to look nearly as dazed as he felt. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was lost in thought. What was it you said?”

Slughorn frowned. “I was simply asking whether or not you were alright.”

“Oh, I’m fine, sir. Thanks for asking.” 

Slughorn‘s frown deepened as his beady eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press Harry on it either. “I have news,” he said in a businesslike tone of voice.

“News?”

“Yes, news.”

Harry could have rolled his eyes. 

Along with etiquette and politics, Horace had spent a very large amount of time tutoring Harry in Potions since his arrival in his home. Harry had mentioned his disdain for the subject during one of their first conversations and the Hogwarts Potions Master had been suitably appalled. He’d since taken it upon himself to not only ensure that Harry was actually competent in the subject — something he most certainly wasn’t before the beginning of his most recent bit of instruction — but also to put at least a dent in the dense wall of disdain he held for the branch of magic.

Much of which could admittedly be solely blamed upon a tall, greasy-haired man who wasn’t even born yet. 

With a tinge of utter revulsion, Harry wondered whether or not Snape’s parents might be attending Hogwarts. Not that he knew if Snape’s parents were even wizards, but he somehow had a hard time imagining the overgrown bat as anything less than a pureblood. 

Harry had learned one very important detail about Horace Slughorn during his crash course in potions. One important detail that was blatantly obvious as the man drew out his announcement unnecessarily, a gleam of unmasked amusement sparkling in his dark eyes.

Horace Slughorn had a flair for dramatics, and he had no qualms about flaunting it for the entire world to see.

“What is it, sir?” 

“I’ve found you a foster family.”

Harry’s mind blanked at the proclamation, hardly even registering Slughorn’s grandiose delivery. 

He had _already_ found a family willing to take in a complete stranger? What on earth had he bribed them with? What kind of connections could he possibly have? Which family was this? Merlin, imagine if it was the Malfoys. No, it surely couldn’t be the Malfoys — anything but the Malfoys.

“W-who is it, sir?” Harry hated the fact his voice shook and he hated even more how the Head of Slytherin House obviously took a savage sort of pleasure in the fact. It validated him and his gift for overdramatizing any given situation to absolutely ludicrous levels.

“The Fawleys,” Slughorn said with obvious satisfaction.

Harry’s mind quickly raced over the names he knew. 

There had been a Fawley during his first year at Hogwarts; a Slytherin whom he was fairly sure had been Head Girl. That was the only Fawley he’d known of in his own time, but he hastily tried to remember anything and everything Horace had taught him about the family. 

“They’re an… Ancient and Most Noble House, right?”

Slughorn grinned. “Quite a new one, actually. Lord Hector Fawley served as the Minister for Magic for quite some time. Lost the race for re-election three years ago; still a poor vote by the public, in my opinion. Him becoming Minister was the tipping point. It was the last feather they needed to call themselves an Ancient and Most Noble House. Their wealth might not compare to the Malfoys, Notts, or Lestranges — and certainly not the Blacks — but they are well-respected by all. They’re part of the Neutral Party, and they aren’t viewed too poorly by either the Liberals or the Conservatives. It’s a great foundation for you. 

“It will give you plenty of resources without drawing too much attention. It will introduce you to some important people but not alienate you to one of the major factions before you’ve decided which set of beliefs best line up with your own worldview .” Slughorn winked. “They also have a daughter who’s in your year. Elena is her name. One of my Slytherins. Quiet girl, but she’s quite good at Potions. Not a standout, but consistently on point. I have a feeling the two of you would get on swimmingly.”

Harry wasn’t too sure about that, but he nodded along. He was really going to try to treat Slytherins fairly and try to give them an honest crack. Not that he was going to ignore their track record. He hadn’t exactly gotten on with them particularly well in the past. 

Or... was it the future?

Gah!

This time, at least he wouldn’t have to contend with being the Boy-Who-Lived — and wasn’t that the greatest thing about this new timeline — but he still wasn’t going to allow his hopes to rise too high. 

People, in general, had never been his area of expertise. Not that he’d had many of those areas. Quidditch and maybe Defence Against the Dark Arts, he supposed, but that had really been it. 

He didn’t say any of that to Horace.

Doing so wouldn’t be productive. From the very limited amount of reading he’d done, the Neutrals didn’t seem too bad. As long as it wasn’t the Malfoys or a family of suitably comparable morality, he would have taken it. 

He had grown to trust Horace. Not absolutely, by any stretch, but trust nonetheless. He was far more educated on the matter than Harry would likely ever be. He would defer to his judgement and hope beyond hope that Horace didn’t lead him astray.

“Do you actually know them, sir?”

“Not closely, but we chat at the odd Wizengamot meeting and have always had a positive relationship. They will treat you well.”

Harry nodded solemnly.

He supposed he was going to live with the Fawleys. 

_**August 10, 1942  
A Large Home in the Suburbs  
5:58 PM** _

The night was warm and dry and the summer breeze was faint, little more than a whisper across the prosperous green lands that stretched on for many miles. Except for this whispering, plus the occasional rustle of the trees it inspired, all was quiet.

Until a loud crack disturbed the silence and Harry Potter very nearly spilled the contents of his stomach. He fortunately managed to avoid that incident, for the rather vile-looking sick would have completely ruined the picturesque image of tranquillity that his dry heaving had already somewhat fractured.

Horace patted him hard on the back and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

He did not like being touched.

After he regained his composure a minute or so later, he straightened up with some trepidation and cast his eyes around the land.

The property he now stood directly in front of was mostly dominated by a very large house. It couldn’t quite be called a manor, but ‘house’ didn’t seem entirely right either. The Dursleys — for all of their numerous faults — had been rather well off, but the tasteful structure laid out before Harry dwarfed Privet Drive completely. It would have effortlessly cast any home on the street into shadow and shame by its size and beauty, even if it would be unable to stand alongside many of the manors frequented by the most elite of Magical Britain’s politics.

This was the second-largest property owned by House Fawley, though only by a small margin. Their premier property, just barely larger than this one, was the home of Lord Fawley and former Minister for Magic, Hector, along with his wife, Hellen. This place, the same place Harry would soon be calling home, was home to Hector’s son — Marshall. Marshall’s wife, Melody, also called it home, as did their daughter, Elena. 

“Nice place, isn’t it?” Horace remarked, leisurely strolling up towards the front door. 

Wards would supposedly prevent them from doing that, most of the time, but apparently not tonight. They must have been granted a pass, or something. Harry hadn’t known that wards were even a thing until Horace had educated him when discussing homes in the magical world. He still knew next to nothing about them, but he did at least now know they existed, which he considered a drastic improvement from complete and total ignorance.

Harry had also learned that most prestigious families had fairly impressive libraries. Horace had assumed the Fawley’s main library would be located at their ancestral family home as opposed to this one, but he had said it was likely that a large portion of their collection was stored here, since the house was home to the family’s youngest member. Harry really hoped this was true, and he hoped they would let him read those books if they were indeed there. He wasn’t Hermione by any means, but lately he had truly begun to realize exactly how far behind he was.

It was actually quite terrifying.

“It is nice, yeah,” admitted Harry, allowing his vivid eyes to roam cautiously over the property.

Slughorn chuckled. “Loosen up, m’boy. Anybody worth anything in this country could tell exactly what you were thinking right about now. At least make them use Legilimency.”

Harry paused in mid-stride. “Use what, sir?”

Slughorn suddenly looked rather tired as he rubbed at his temple. “I shouldn’t have said that. Put it out of your mind, dear boy. Not something I should be letting slip around students. Highly-regulated magic, it is.”

When he had first arrived in the past, Harry would have easily been fooled. Now, he wasn’t sure. He was far from positive that Slughorn had just manipulated him, but he thought he might have. The look in his eyes hadn’t been appropriate for the situation. It had almost looked as though he was satisfied. As if he wanted Harry to look into Legilimency.

He supposed it didn’t matter.

He was definitely going to do that now, whether Slughorn liked it or not.

Much of dinner with Horace and the Fawleys was more awkward than Harry would have liked. There wasn’t any one thing that made it awkward, aside from the obvious; he just wasn’t an overly social person. Meeting new people had always been difficult. Horace had admittedly been an exception, but it had been vaguely similar to the incident with Hermione and the troll back in first year. Escaping mortal peril alongside another person tended to forge a deep connection that was hard to quantify. 

Even then, Harry hadn’t opened up beyond the absolute necessities, for the most part, and he was still very cautious while in conversation with Slughorn.

These Fawleys were completely new to the equation and they hadn’t had anything suitably exciting happen that quickly bonded them to Harry.

All three of them were brunettes. Marshall had dark brown hair and sea-green eyes. Melody possessed light brown hair with warm brown eyes. Elena — who was apparently in the same year as Harry — had soft features, pale skin, her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes. Just as Horace had observed, she seemed quiet. She had scarcely said a word to Harry since he had arrived, though it wasn’t exactly as though he could say much differently about himself.

“Hogwarts letters should be arriving soon,” Marshall commented, glancing meaningfully in Slughorn’s general direction.

The man nodded, an obvious smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I dare say they’ll arrive shortly, yes.”

“Do you have a favourite class in school, Harry?” asked Melody.

Harry was immensely grateful the Fawleys weren’t calling him Hadrian. They were an Ancient and Most Noble House and he hadn’t been sure how stuck up they were going to be. He was thankful though, for he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to resist the inevitably intoxicating urge to punch the first person to call him Hadrian in the face.

“Definitely Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he replied. “So long as Hogwarts is anything like Ilvermorny, that is.”

That was the story. He was a European-born wizard who had spent much of his youth in America. His parents were initially British — hence his accent — but had raised him in America. In the last year, they had moved to Scandinavia for work, but both of them had died during a raid in Helsinki orchestrated by Grindelwald and his forces.

That attack had actually happened, and there were enough unidentified victims that his story was viable.

It was a good story, Harry thought. The only downside was that he’d needed to read up on his supposed school.

Ilvermorny had four houses to compare to Hogwarts’ four. The Horned Serpent represented the mind and Harry liked to think of it as Ilvermorny’s Ravenclaw. The sharper minds seemed to end up there, judging by what he had read. 

Wampus was the house associated with the body, and it was said to be the house of warriors. This seemed the most like Gryffindor to Harry, and it was the house Horace had chosen for him. He was supposedly going to be branding Harry as an extremely talented Defence Against the Dark Arts student who had shown aptitude on the battlefield, whatever the hell that meant. 

He hadn’t questioned it; it was far easier not to.

Pukwudgie was associated with the heart, and many of the healers who graduated Ilvermorny had come from that house. From what he had read, Pukwudgie seemed to be comparable to Hufflepuff, in many ways. When first reading about the Ilvermorny houses, Harry had remarked that even the two ridiculous names — Hufflepuff and Pukwudgie — were equally comical. 

The house Harry thought he probably would have been sorted into had he actually attended Ilvermorny was the house of the Thunderbird. The house represented one’s soul, and it was said to be the destination for adventurers. Judging by Harry’s first three years at Hogwarts and his intense, natural curiosity, that was most certainly where he thought he would have landed. Which was ironic, because he guessed his previous groupings meant this was Ilvermorny’s version of Slytherin.

He told the Fawleys all of this, except for his own reflections on where he thought he fit, as Melody used the opportunity to ask him about Ilvermorny. He had to try very hard not to look nervous, but Horace gently guided the topic of conversation away from that particular line of questioning.

Which was good, as both Marshall and Melody were watching him very intently. Not that he could blame them, given the current set of circumstances. 

So was Elena, for that matter.

She hadn’t been at first, but ever since Harry had mentioned his interest in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and particularly since Slughorn had gushed about his natural ability, she had watched him with obvious interest and blatant curiosity.

It had been quite the shift from the shy, resigned-looking girl before the comment.

_**August 11, 1942  
The Secondary Library of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Fawley  
8:47 AM** _

Harry had lost track of time.

He must have, for he could not remember the sun rising. 

When he’d first entered the spacious library… he wasn’t sure how long ago, the sun was most certainly not up.

The dinner had stretched on for quite some time. They had been served a three-course meal, plus dessert. This might not have been the Fawley’s main property, but it was still staffed by a house-elf. Harry was quickly getting the feeling that though Horace might not have cited them as being obscenely rich, the family still probably put anyone he had ever called a friend to shame in the department of monetary holdings. And Hermione’s parents had both been dentists, so that was a fairly significant statement.

When dinner had ended, Harry had been given a brief tour and was assigned a large room overlooking the lush green lawns. It was more space than he had ever imagined having and he frankly had no idea what to do with any of it. Especially now that he had no possessions aside from his wand and numerous clothes Horace had bought for him the day after he had landed in the past. This wasn’t at all suspicious to the Fawleys as — according to his story — his home had been destroyed in the Grindelwald raid whilst he had been out with friends. They said they would be giving him gold to get a full wardrobe when he and their daughter, Elena, went to Diagon Alley after receiving their Hogwarts letters.

He hadn’t stayed up long after dinner. He wasn’t a social person, and trying to trick himself into thinking he was one for several hours had exhausted him more effectively than he would ever care to admit. Being an early riser as it was, going to bed earlier had only meant he rose that next morning at a time that, if you asked most people, would be classified as more than a little bit preposterous.

After getting dressed and showering, he made a beeline for the library. It had been his goal to do just that last night, but he had been entirely too fatigued to reliably absorb any new information.

The room containing numerous shelves was spacious, if not admittedly jaw-dropping. It paled in comparison to the Hogwarts library, though that was to be expected. Hermione had said more times than Harry could count in the three years he’d known her that more books were housed at Hogwarts than anywhere else in the country. This room wasn’t anywhere close to being as large as the one in the fabled castle, but it did contain an extremely impressive collection of books and it would more than keep Harry busy for the rest of the summer, even if he did nothing else but read.

He had searched the shelves for some time before settling on a book on defensive magic. It was one he had never seen before, though he supposed that was hardly surprising. It wasn’t exactly as though he had ever put a whole lot of time into extracurricular studies.

Evidently, he had become more fixated on the book than he’d initially realized. 

When the soft clearing of a throat from nearby jolted him, drawing his attention away from the page in front of him, Harry winced and was forced to blink spots from his eyes as sunlight suddenly accosted him, streaming freely through the large window nearby. He hadn’t even noticed the sun had risen.

Upon a brief glance up to the large clock on display, he realized that it was just past a quarter to nine. That meant he’d been in the library and taking notes for more than three hours.

“What are you reading?” 

Elena’s voice was very soft, but he noticed right away it wasn’t timid. That was interesting, for he had pegged her as being quite shy when first meeting her last night. 

“Just a book on Defence,” he answered, holding it up for her inspection.

Her eyebrows knit together. “You’ve gotten pretty far into it.”

Harry suddenly looked rather bashful. “I’ve… er, been down here for a while.”

“How long is a while?” 

He shrugged. “About three hours, give or take.”

He had to suppress a grin as the girl’s eyes looked as though they might bulge out of her head in surprise. “Three hours?” she asked faintly. “That means you were up before six! People say I get up ridiculously early and I never get out of bed before seven-thirty.”

“I was actually up before five.” 

Harry had literally no reason for admitting this other than to see her reaction, but he thought it would likely be amusing enough to validate his lone justification. It didn’t disappoint, and he found himself cracking up at the gobsmacked expression upon her face. It was as though she had come to the unexpected revelation that she was looking at an alien with multiple heads and green skin.

Given that he was from fifty-plus years in the future, he supposed it wouldn’t have been too far off; though he didn’t think green skin would suit him.

“Something has to be wrong with you,” muttered Elena. Her words had the odd effect of causing Harry to sober almost at once. Oh, if this naive girl only knew… “You said you were interested in Defence, right?”

The question caught him a bit off guard, but he recovered quickly enough. “Uh… yeah, I am; it’s my favourite subject. Why do you ask?” Elena blushed slightly but muttered something about it being hers as well. “You’re going into fourth year, right? Same as me?” She nodded. “Have you read this, then?”

“Part of it.” 

“How far did you get?”

“Not as far as you. I stopped pretty early on and was trying to get the Protego Shield Charm to work. I never quite got it, but I haven’t tried in a couple of days.”

Harry felt thoroughly bewildered and his expression reflected this quite perfectly. “A few days ago? I thought you couldn’t cast magic during the summer holidays?”

“That’s sort of complicated.” Elena seemed to consider how best to explain when Harry’s look of intense confusion and curiosity did not so much as falter. “How did it work in America, just so I can compare?”

Thank Merlin Horace had forced Harry to look into that. The Statute of Secrecy was enforced very strictly in America. So much so that they made the English protocols look positively lacklustre in comparison. They had suffered horrible conflicts between wizards and muggles far more recently than Magical Britain. Because of this, their restrictions were as numerous as rabbits and as rigid as a board.

“We were never allowed to use any magic out of school until we were of age. Wizards and muggles weren’t even supposed to know each other.” 

Harry suddenly realized that he had no idea how that worked concerning muggleborns and really hoped Elena didn’t ask. That was something he was desperately going to need to look into, at some point.

Mercifully for him, she just began her explanation. “Well, that’s what they tell you here, as well. At the end of every year, we all get notes saying not to cast any magic outside of school or the Ministry of Magic will know.” Harry could sense the ‘but’ coming. “Well, England has something called the Trace, but it isn’t that great at its job.”

Now Harry was extremely confused. 

He knew exactly what the Trace was. He had even suffered its wrath back during the summer before his second year when Dobby had tried so very hard to prevent his return to Hogwarts. On that occasion, the Trace had been very successful in instantly alerting the Ministry of Magic that underage sorcery had been performed.

Though, he supposed it had failed in its identification of exactly who had cast the magic.

Come to think of it, how did that work?

He really needed to think things through sometimes. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten himself killed before now, even ignoring the spectacular sets of circumstances he always seemed to find himself in.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked with an extreme amount of caution and curiosity.

“Well, the Ministry can’t track whether or not a specific person is casting magic. That’s literally impossible.” That would certainly explain how they had incorrectly assumed him the perpetrator of the Hover Charm, though it still didn’t explain how the Trace actually worked. “It works on areas. So if a spell is cast in a mostly muggle area where a muggleborn lives, the Ministry obviously knows who did it.”

Ah… yeah, that would do it alright.

“It doesn’t work too well with purebloods though,” Elena continued. “They only know that magic is being cast. The problem is that when there’s more than one person there who can cast magic, they can’t be sure who it is; and it’s not as if they can just send a notice any time Mother or Father cast a spell. They sort of just rely on pureblood parents to enforce the rule.”

Dear Merlin, that was an awful system.

“Isn’t there like… a lot of problems with that system?” asked Harry.

“If you’re not a pureblood or at least a halfblood, then yes, there are a lot of problems.”

“Couldn’t you like… frame somebody for underage magic? Or just kill in a muggle area and get away with it?”

“Well, you can challenge an underage magic claim. If you get to the Ministry quickly enough, they’ll be able to put your wand through Priori Incantato.”

“Put it through what?”

“Priori Incantato. It’s a spell that makes a wand show all of the spells it’s recently cast. Most wizards can only make the spell show magic over the last few hours, though. You could submit a pensieve memory, but there’s a verification process you need to pay for that is ridiculously expensive. I’m not even sure my family could afford it, and we’re pretty well off. Apparently, they make it so expensive because it’s a pain to do and they don’t want to use it in every trial because of that. Plenty of people say it’s just because the Wizengamot is so corrupt. Honestly, they have a point.”

Harry might have been an idiot when it came to most things — politics very much included — but he certainly thought the entire system screamed of corruption. “So your parents let you cast magic?”

“As far as I know, most pureblood parents let their kids cast magic. All of the traditional ones, at least.”

Harry wondered if by ‘traditional’ she meant old families like the Blacks. Or whether she meant the families who were blood purists. 

“So… I could practice magic, then? Or are your parents only going to let you do it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elena chided. “If they’re going to let me do it, of course they’ll let you do it. It would be unfair if they didn’t.”

It was a testament to just how horrible his childhood had been that she instinctively rebuffed the idea as if it were foolish. In reality, it was an accurate summary of how Harry had lived ten of his first eleven years.

“What was the spell you were having trouble with?” he questioned, wanting to switch the topic away from one that might force troubling memories to the surface of his mind. “The Protego Charm, you said?”

“Yeah, it’s a late fifth-year spell, I think. It’s a pretty powerful shield charm. A lot of Aurors even use it.”

Harry had actually just read about that spell a few pages back, so finding it again wasn’t particularly difficult. The incantation was Protego and the wand movement was a tight, circular motion in front of one’s own body. Shrugging, he stood and raised his wand, drawing the movement in the air a few times before properly committing to an attempt.

“Protego!”

The air shimmered weakly, though it looked more as though whatever he had just tried to do had sparked right out. 

Despite this, Elena looked surprised. “You almost did it?”

Harry shrugged. “Did I? I have no idea.”

“Yes, you did. You were closer than I ever got, at least. I never got that effect.” She eyed him critically. “How good are you at Defence? I know you said you were interested in it, but I got an O in the class last year and even I didn’t do as well as you, and that was your first try.”

Harry suddenly looked rather uncomfortable. He had never been particularly fond of talking about himself. “Uh… I’m pretty good, I think? We had an obstacle course as our final exam and I was the first in my year to finish.”

Elena glanced from Harry to the clock. “Would-would you like to practice later?”

Harry’s ears perked up. “I’ll practice now if you’d like,” he said excitedly.

She smiled. “It will have to be a bit later. Mother wants us at breakfast because these just came in.” 

She held up a familiar-looking envelope and Harry had to try very hard not to grin like a madman. Given his alleged backstory, it might have been a bit out-of-character. 

The envelope she held was one composed of yellowish parchment and Harry immediately knew what would be inside.

Sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed as soon as he ripped open the letter on the way to the house’s main dining room.

_Dear Master Pavonis,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted  
at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than August 20. _

_Yours sincerely,  
Albus Dumbledore,  
Deputy Headmaster_

Oh… wow — Dumbledore wasn’t even the Headmaster yet. 

Merlin, this was going to all be very odd.

__**August 15, 1942  
Diagon Alley  
2:53 PM**

Harry and Elena had formed an odd sort of bond ever since that first morning in the library. 

It turned out that Elena actually was shy, but not in the way Harry had suspected. She had a hard time meeting new people, largely because she hadn’t had many friends before. Not so much because she couldn’t make them as much as because she’d chosen not to. She had been altogether quite elusive on the subject and Harry hadn’t pressed. Still, he had put together some things. 

The best he could work out was that her parents were very busy people and, though she had always been treated well, she had never been given a whole lot of attention when she was young. Harry thought she might have grown fond of her quiet sort of peacefulness and intentionally done nothing to rupture it up until now.

Once the ice had been broken between the two of them, their relationship had formed with surprising swiftness. Harry was very far from trusting her completely, and he knew all too well the same could be said in reverse. But they’d definitely struck up a friendship, one nurtured by a very large number of hours spent practicing defensive magic. During that time, Harry had actually mastered the Protego Shield, something he was very proud of. Elena hadn’t quite gotten it yet, but she was fairly close, and would unquestionably have it mastered by the time they arrived at Hogwarts.

It turned out that, like him, she was most interested in Defence Against the Dark Arts. For her, it was because she one day wanted to become a professional duellist. Harry would never have guessed it from her demeanour, but he could see why. He was unmistakably the more talented out of the two of them, in the sense that he could master spells faster, but their duels were very close despite that. The first few times they’d duelled, Harry had lost. This wasn’t that surprising, as the only experience he ever had duelling was against Malfoy at the only meeting of the briefly reformed Hogwarts Duelling Club. 

After he had gotten the hang of duelling and learned the Protego Shield, the tides had turned. He had progressively started winning more and more of their duels and he beat her more often than she beat him now. Their duels were still extremely competitive and oftentimes, they were spent mostly in a deadlock. The shield helped him greatly and Elena said that Harry just had a ‘scary aptitude’ for duelling. She predicted that once he got the hang of it, he would be beating her and everybody else in their year easily. This didn’t deter her career aspirations in the slightest. In her mind, it just meant she would have to work harder. 

She also seemed to view him as being some sort of prodigy not to compare herself to, which he personally thought was preposterous. He also thought — rather painfully — that Hermione would have laughed herself to sleep if she ever heard anyone call Harry a prodigy, whether it only be in one subject or not.

By the time the two of them touched down in Diagon Alley after taking the floo — an experience Harry was only mildly more comfortable with than the last time he’d used it — he could easily say she was the closest friend he’d ever had outside of Ron and Hermione. Seeing as they’d known each other for all of five days, that was actually very depressing, but Harry didn’t think about it too long. As he had learned of late, dwelling on dark, unpleasant thoughts was not at all conducive to one’s mental health or stability. 

Elena had even voluntarily waited for his eyesight to be fixed, a process they had no idea as to the duration of. 

Horace had been insistent that Harry get it fixed. There were apparently ways of fixing it; they were just very obscure and very expensive. He’d said one of the ways to fix it was through Alchemy, but one had to be obscenely skilled to make that happen. He had been sure he would find somebody who could do it though and he had come through. The Fawleys would even cover the cost of it, as well as all his school things, clothes and any books he wanted to buy whilst he was out. 

He really did like the Fawleys. They were remarkably kind, if somewhat distant guardians, especially compared to the Dursleys. He didn’t even so much mind the distant part. Distance had always meant safety for much of his life, after all.

As the procedure had been going on, Harry had barely been keeping track. It was very complex and rather confusing. The only thing that baffled him and Elena more than the procedure was the man who had carried it out.

They had walked into a room in the Leaky Cauldron that had apparently been rented out for the man. He was supposedly from America, so he would need somewhere to practice out of.

When they walked in, they both blinked at the sight.

The room had been altered by a very powerful Spatial-Expansion Charm and it was full of all sorts of things. 

But that wasn’t the baffling part.

The baffling part was the man who stood in the middle of it, scratching his head as he mumbled to himself. 

“Job, fun, job fun, job or fun. Hm… money or freedom, money or freedom.” Then, he seemed to perk up. “Ha! Oh Reginald, you foolish man. You’ve been thinking about it all wrong! Money and freedom! Nobody will be able to contain you! Those idiots won’t know what hit them if they try—” then he spotted Harry and Elena. Harry had expected him to look embarrassed, but this couldn’t have been further from the truth.

His countenance shifted so suddenly, Harry wondered whether this strangely muttering man might have suffered from some sort of multiple-personality disorder. Instead of his muttering and scheming, as well as an overall mad-scientist sort of demeanour, he was suddenly stone-cold and deadly serious.

Granted, the latter image was ruined by his attire, which leant itself much more naturally to the former.

He was wearing a comically large, shining white lab coat that was obviously several sizes too big for him. He wore tight pants underneath and rather expensive looking dress shoes as if he wanted to show off. 

The man himself was about six-feet tall. He had a lean, lanky sort of build with short black hair and light blue eyes. Eyes that narrowed upon Harry and Elena as he closed the door with a lazy flick of his wand, stepping closer to the pair of them while he spoke in a comically serious voice.

“My name is Reginald Edward Gress,” he began. “Your name is apparently Hadrian James Pavonis, which is completely and totally absurd!” The man scoffed. “Hadrian? What kind of name is Hadrian? Damn you Brits, adding to the utter ridiculousness that has plagued our world. Honestly, Hadrian.” He sounded as if the fact genuinely offended him, and Harry had to try very hard not to blush. 

“This is exactly why this world would be so much better if everybody would just shut up and ask me for advice. We would be so much further ahead if people just started asking me for advice.” He paused. “I wasn’t going anywhere with that, I just find the name Hadrian hilariously ridiculous.”

The man’s posture suddenly stiffened as his attention refocused on Harry, as though he had spaced out and suddenly been brought back down to earth. 

“Right, you — Hadrian James Pavonis.” He chuckled. “Hadrian, honestly, the idiocy of some people.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Well you, Hadrian,” his lips twitched but at least this time he didn’t laugh, “had the common sense to come to me for help. So I shall prove the validity of my ramblings by making all of your problems disappear!” 

He snapped his fingers theatrically before suddenly looking puzzled. “That is, of course, as soon as you tell me why it is you’re here? It seems to have slipped my mind.”

“Right piece of work he was, huh?” Harry asked as he and Elena once more circled back to the enigmatic Reginald Edward Gress in a conversation several hours later. 

They had just exited Flourish and Blotts. Harry now also had a new trunk that was enchanted to hold far more on the inside than the out but to still be featherlight. It wasn’t obscenely spacious inside. You couldn’t live in it, or any such nonsense, but it did hold a lot of things. Thankfully, books were one of them, because he had bought a lot of books. He had been a bit reluctant to spend the Fawleys’ money, but he _really_ y wanted books, and Elena’s coaxing had been _really_ convincing. 

“He was… something,” Elena noted. “I have no idea what that thing was, and I sort of hope we never see it again, but he did at least fix your eyes.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, running a hand over his face. 

He was still in complete and utter awe that he could now see the world around him without his glasses. Even more so by the fact it seemed sharper now than ever before. And still, he was even more shocked that the person who’d cured it seemed to be some lunatic in a lab coat who had truly turned out to be every bit the mad scientist he appeared as.

“What’s next?” asked Harry.

“Madam Malkin’s,” answered Elena. “I’ve grown a bit over the summer and need new robes and you pretty much need a full wardrobe. We’ll get you an owl after that. The family one is used by my Grandfather, so I have a personal one. There’s really no reason why you shouldn’t have an owl of your own. I’m sure Mother and Father won’t mind.”

“You’re positive of that, right? They’ve already spent a lot of money on me, and I would hate to make them upset.”

Elena gave him an odd yet exasperated look. “Honestly, Harry, it will be fine. I have no idea why you’re so paranoid. It’s like you expect them to curse you for the smallest things.”

Oh, if only she knew. 

The cynical part of him wanted to spout out exactly why he thought that and see her reaction. The other, more rational ninety-five percent of his brain never wanted anybody to know about that, so he held his tongue.

When they entered Madam Malkin’s, they were greeted by the woman whom Harry thought likely owned the shop. She wasn’t the same one as the woman he had met in his timeline. “Anything I can help you with, dears?”

“He needs to be fitted for Hogwarts robes,” Elena told the woman without preamble. “I need new robes too, but I have my measurements already. I’ll just browse while he gets fitted, if that’s okay?”

She sounded rather unsure near the end, which didn’t surprise Harry. She did not like talking to strangers. In the short time she’d known Harry though, she had learned he detested it far more. Where she disliked it and found it mildly unpleasant, she could tell it made him nervous and uncomfortable, so she had taken the metaphorical bludger for him on this one.

“Of course, dear,” the woman replied. “Just do let us know if you find anything you’d like to take with you. We’ll get this one sorted in no time. Follow me, dear. Another student is being fitted for new robes as we speak.”

Indeed there was, as Harry saw when he stepped up onto the stool next to her.

She was a very tall girl with pale, perfect skin, long, straight dark hair and dark blue eyes. Not a hair seemed out of place on her head, and her countenance was completely and totally blank before he stepped up beside her, at which point he realized just how tall she was, and suddenly hoped she was a lot older than him. She was taller than any girl he’d seen at Hogwarts and the difference between the two of them was rather embarrassing. 

“Are you a Hogwarts student?” 

Even her voice seemed perfect. Was she just a robot? She had no obvious flaws, whatsoever. Seriously, there wasn’t a blemish nor a hair out of place. Even her robes looked pristine. Her voice was soft and smooth, and it seemed to have a naturally cool undertone. Despite this, it was perfectly modulated and conveyed the perfectly appropriate amount of polite interest. It still somehow sent a shiver up Harry’s spine, even if he didn’t quite know why.

It took him a minute to remember she had asked him a question, but he hastened to answer once he did so. “Uh… yeah, Hogwarts. You?”

She nodded slightly. “I go to Hogwarts, yes. I’m a fifth-year student, how about you?”

“I’m going into my fourth year.”

She tilted her head, obviously wanting a better look at him. He shuddered. Her eyes seemed to be x-raying him in a way not even Snape’s had been capable of. They were as calculating as they were intense and Harry instinctively looked away from them.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” the girl said slowly. “I have a rather good memory, and I don’t remember ever seeing you at Hogwarts.”

“This is my first year at Hogwarts,” Harry explained quickly, supposing this was as good a time as any to begin rehearsing this explanation. “I went to school at Ilvermorny in America. My parents were born in Britain but did a lot of travelling for work. We ended up back in Europe but they… didn’t make it out of a raid.”

The older girl’s expression softened and those eyes suddenly looked more compassionate than calculating. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, and she truly did sound it. “Was it a muggle or magical raid, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Magical,” said Harry, noticing how the woman fitting his robes seemed to tense at the confession. Hardly a surprise after Grindelwald’s forces had terrorized the alley barely more than two weeks ago. “Why do you ask?” 

This was similar to the conversation he had shared with Draco two years ago in this establishment… wait, was it forty-nine years in the future? 

Gah! This time shit was brain-numbing. 

Nevertheless. Draco had also subtly asked him about blood status. Well, what the blond had considered subtly, at least. This girl’s probe was far less obvious in hindsight, and Harry would never have realized it might be a probe at all if not for that previous encounter.

“I was only curious because I’ve experienced the muggle raids.” That had not been the answer Harry was expecting to hear. “I meant no disrespect by the question, and I’m sorry if it came across that way. I wasn’t trying to learn your blood status and look down on you for it, or any such nonsense. I was just curious whether or not we might be able to relate to one another.”

She sounded so innocent that Harry felt guilty for suspecting her. “No, it’s okay,” he said hastily. “There’s no need to apologize. Are you a muggleborn, then?”

The girl stiffened for what must have been only a fraction of a second, but her voice lost none of its confidence as it answered. “Halfblood. Both of my parents are dead.”

Oh, wow… the two of them seemed to have a peculiar amount in common. A seemingly mutual distaste for blood purity and similar backgrounds. That was interesting. “I’m… sorry about that.”

The corners of the girl’s mouth twitched. “In four years of hearing that over and over again, you might be the first person to say it and it actually mean something.” 

He could relate to that... Merlin, could he relate to that. “Same here, actually.”

The girl smiled as both of them stepped down from the stool, just as Elena walked around the corner and froze at the sight of them. Harry thought her reaction was odd, but his attention was caught by the girl in front of him when she began to speak once more. He looked up at her, and that was even more disconcerting now that he was on flat ground. Girls did hit their growth spurts first though, and she was older than him. Still, it made him more uncomfortable than he would care to admit. He disliked feeling as though he was at a disadvantage.

“Hogwarts is a chaotic place, and I’m sure it will be an adjustment getting used to the castle and all that comes with it.” She smiled warmly as she held out her hand. “I would be happy to help you settle in, if you would let me.”

Harry suspected Elena would do that just fine and he felt an odd sense of foreboding around this girl. Despite it, he didn’t want to be rude, so he took her offered hand and shook. Her grip was shockingly firm. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

She nodded. “Please do. I’m always happy to help…” she trailed off. “I don’t believe I ever got your name.”

He had to try hard not to bite his lip. She was watching him much too carefully. 

“Hadrian Pavonis,” he said through a sigh, remembering to his dismay the way Reginald Gress had ruthlessly mocked his name. If only he disagreed with the man, it would have bothered him slightly less. “For the love of Merlin though, just call me Harry.”

She laughed a soft, chilling laugh that seemed to be otherworldly in an odd sort of way as she finally released her vice-like grip on his hand, much to his relief. Handshakes were manageable, but he didn’t love being touched, and she hadn’t released his appendage for quite some time. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she quoted him. “My name is Emily Riddle. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Riddle… oh… FUCK!

WHAT THE FUCK!!?

WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK!!?

If he weren’t in public, he likely would have allowed himself to give into shock. In his current setting, he did everything he could to not look dumbstruck, but he wasn’t sure to what degree, if any, he had succeeded.

And could anyone blame him?

Riddle… as in Tom Marvolo Riddle? Otherwise known as the monster who would later become Lord Voldemort?

Not necessarily, he supposed. 

Riddle wasn’t a common name, but it wasn’t too out there, either. There could be more than one Riddle. 

After all, the Riddle he knew of was male…

He was also pale, dark-haired and obscenely tall for his age, at least when they’d met in the Chamber of Secrets.

This reality also seemed to mirror his own in many ways, with small, subtle changes.

Could this be one of them?

Could this be the female version of Tom Riddle?

It had to be; he just had that feeling. 

There were so many other possibilities, but they were similar both in appearance and mannerisms. They were equal parts measured and angelic, and they even seemed to speak in a similar manner.

The problem was, he hadn’t yet answered the first true question he’d had upon arriving in this new, altered reality.

Was the butterfly effect real and if so, what sort of impact could it have on this reality?

He had no idea.

FUCK!

This Riddle could be different. She could apply the genius she likely still possessed in other areas and turn out to be the next Dumbledore, for all he knew.

Or she could be infinitely worse than Lord Voldemort, more evil and powerful in ways he couldn’t even imagine.

Oh, he was so fucked.

This was going to be the biggest mind-fuck of all time and he might well die before it was all said and done.

...or prosper.

GAH! This was impossible!

“Is everything alright, Harry?”

Her damned voice again… why did it pull him so effortlessly from his thoughts? Why did it draw his attention seemingly without any real effort on her part? Why did that concerned look in her dark blue eyes make his heart skip a beat?

GAH!

“It’s… nothing. Just had an... odd thought, that’s all.”

She looked at him with obvious concern, but now he really had no idea whether or not it was real. “You’re quite sure it’s nothing? You suddenly look quite pale and a bit faint. If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know.”

“It’s nothing,” said a rather hurried-sounding voice from nearby. Elena suddenly stepped up beside Harry, wrapping an oddly protective arm around him and making him tense. 

She didn’t seem to notice.

She just continued looking up at Emily Riddle. “He hasn’t felt well for the past few days.”

Emily’s eyebrow rose. “Elena? You know Harry already?”

“My family is fostering him.”

Emily hummed to herself. “How interesting. Well, if he really isn’t feeling well, I would suggest you get him home. I wouldn’t want him to suffer any longer on my behalf.” 

Elena hardly waited for a heartbeat before doing just that. Her rush to get out of the store — quickly telling one of the shopkeepers to have their things mailed on the way out — only made Harry even more nervous.

And still, he heard Emily Riddle’s parting words clear as day. “I’ll see you at Hogwarts, Harry. I look forward to becoming more acquainted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is quite a long AN, but first, a friendly reminder that — as stated in the AN of chapter 1 — there is no upload schedule for this story. The next chapter is available on my Discord server for those most eager among you, and the next three are up on my P*T*E*N page. But again, these are posted on site only when the audio versions are done as well. Seeing as both my narrator and my video editor are university students, that can take some time. I promise, I am writing this during the breaks.**
> 
> **Now, a few things to clear up:**
> 
> **Firstly, Master Pavonis was not a typo. Back in the 40s, males in British boarding schools would have been exclusively referred to by this. Some older professors still do this today, according to several people I know that have actually attended these schools recently.**
> 
> **Now, because I know the names Liberal and Conservative are going to trigger people, let me explain this. That way if you still try and make this about politics, it just makes you look foolish and I can just not respond to you.**
> 
> **The political connotations of those words have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH HOW I CHOSE THEM! I really could not care less about politics.**
> 
> **Liberals and Conservatives were chosen because of how they are defined in the English language. According to their definitions, Liberal means progressive and Conservative means traditionalist. Seeing as one faction is trying to maintain the old ways and keep themselves primarily in power, whereas the other is campaigning for change and equal rights for all, I think these definitions are apt.**
> 
> **It has nothing to do with politics, so please don’t make it a political conversation. That would be saying more about you than the story.**
> 
> **Thank you to my lovely Discord Editors Asmodeus Stahl, Dorian Grey, and Varum for their corrections/contributions on this chapter.**
> 
> **Please read and review.**


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